Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Shelley's 2-Step Recovery Program: RFR!

You know what I hate? 12-steppers. They aren't fucking special. "I'm a drug addict (or alcoholic, or sex addict, or compulsive gambler, or relative of one of the above, or whatever), I can't help it, I'm powerless. I can only stay clean by rehashing my past for an hour each day." Don't they realize that ANYONE who does drugs (I'll just use NAzis as an example to save keystrokes) for long enough will become a drug addict? They weren't born with anything different. Take someone who hates drugs, get them in a bad car accident where they need oxycontin to function long-term, come back in a year. Are they a drug addict? You bet your ass they are! No one is powerless over their addiction. We all choose what we want to do, and if we overdo it we get hooked. Then we believe that the almightly twelve steps are the way out of the mess that WE OURSELVES created.

Taken under the wing of veteran NAzis, we actually believe that nothing is our fault. Mugged your grandma for her percocet? You couldn't help it. Set a crackhouse on fire for refusing to serve you? You were powerless over the drugs. Let your 1-year-old son sit in a shitty diaper for three days while you were too tweaked to leave your room? Addiction is a disease, you can't blame someone for having a disease! Oh, and do 90 meetings in 90 days. That way you will be so retardedly entrenched in the program that you won't be able to figure out that it's all a bunch of manipulative bullshit. Addiction is not a disease, and everything that an addict does is that addicts fault. No more cop-outs, no more "disease of addiction", no more "endorphin deficiency syndrome", no more. Just take the goddamn blame for what YOU did.

But see, I am here to help so I am starting my own recovery program. It's called "Recovery from Recovery" or RFR. It's way better than any 12-step program because... wait for it... it only has 2 steps. And I can accomplish what took others 12 steps in a simple two:

1) Get the fuck over it.
2) Move on with your life.

That's all there is to it! And we only meet for five minutes to introduce ourselves and go over the steps. Once we've gotten over it and moved on with our lives, there's no need to continue the meeting, nor is there any need to meet again tommorrow. But, for those of us who need a little reminder, we do meet once a month to remind one another to get the fuck over it.

So, who wants to join RFR? Admission is free and I bet MONEY that my drug program will have identical stats to every other drug program on the planet: NA, AA, methadone maintenance, suboxone maintenance, 3-day detox, 28-day rehab, 60-day rehab, 1-year rehab, Christian drug programs, boarding schools, teen drug programs, hospitalization, methadone/suboxone detox, home "comfort-med" detox, and just saying fuck it and quitting all by yourself. They all have a success rate of between 3-5%, and RFR promises to match those statistics. After all, it works if you get the fuck over it.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

the most ghetto thing I've ever seen in my life:

A homeless black man with only one tooth, right in the front of the top jaw. That one tooth was gold. But you could tell it wasn't real gold, because it was covered in rust.

His name? Rusty.

Monday, March 23, 2009

eight new Jasmyne pics- if ya don't like it, no one said ya had to be here

Oh, and my mom is holding her in most of the pics because I take better pictures than she does.

a dark spirit holding a magic wand

Okay, due to popular demand (by which I mean, one anonymous commenter and my friend E) I am going to post an interesting story from the past. Last time I did this, I got quite a few comments about "you're back in the game" and "this didn't just happen you liar", so I'll repeat that this story is from the past. That means it already happened. For further clarification to those of you who don't understand English or just can't fucking read, I went to dictionary.com to help y'all out:

past (adjective)
1- gone by or elapsed in time
2- of, having existed in, or having occured during a time previous to the present; bygone
3- gone by just before the present time; just passed

In case you still don't get it, I will date my story. I might get some details wrong, but it was a long time ago so anyone who was there (Elliott) feel free to comment on what I fucked up on. Happy reading.

winter 2004, age 18

It was me and Elliott (aka 'E') hanging out in a state that is not Florida (but nearby!), and we were quite bored. Aside from a mountain of methamphetamine and some Steel Reserve 211, there was nothing to do. We were barely legal adults and were finished with our childish drug-fueled adventures- we were ready for bigger, badder, more "adult" drug-fueled adventures! So we got in his Range and started driving. We didn't have a particular destination in mind, we just drove (no stops necessary when there's a shitload of crank in the vehicle) until we realized we were near Tampa, Florida. Neither one of us had ever been to Tampa so we decided to finally stop and see what there was to do.

We looked around for the downtown area, figuring that was where the action (if any) was, and found a small, ghetto-looking town called Ybor City, aka downtown Tampa. There was a strip and it had a bar adjacent to a Cuban restaurant and since rice and beans followed by some whiskey sounded like a great idea to both of us, we parked the truck. We pulled out the needles for the first time that week and did a decent shot of speed before entering, since nothing gets an appetite going like being all tweaked out. At least for us.

We walked into the Cuban restaurant (I do NOT remember the name of the place, although I do recall a huge tile mural covered in colorful fish, which overstimulated my meth-addled brain), a little paranoid, thinking that everyone was going to know how fucked up we were and stare at us. Our fears were unfounded- the only people in there not tweaked out were drunk or nodding out, and I'm including the employees. E and I took a seat in the corner so that we could count and rearrange sugar packets unmolested until our tweaked-out waitress brought us menus.

I made a valiant attempt at reading the menu, but the words were shaking worse than my hands so I looked to E for assistance. He told the waitress to bring something delicious and some beers, which we pounded down in seconds. When the bill came, it was the menu fiasco all over again and we couldn't figure out what the hell the price of our food was. E left a random handful of tens and twenties, and we raced out of there and directly into the next-door bar (with a quick stop in the Range, of course, for another shot and to rustle up our fake IDs).

We sat at the bar, which was filled with just as many tweaked out/nodding/shitfaced folks as the restaurant, and started pounding down Jagerbombs. When the barkeep told us to leave, we suddenly noticed it was 3am- and we had gotten there around 6 or 7 in the evening. We stumbled out to the Range so that we could go home, but neither one of us could grab the steering wheel in two tries let alone drive anywhere. So we decided to take a nice walk around the unfamiliar ghetto to sober up. Great idea, right?

We wandered shitfaced around Ybor City until finding ourselves standing in front of what looked to be a housing project. Or possibly a crackhouse, I'm still not sure. It was 3 stories and surrounded by huge double-humped curbstones, which I wanted to sit down on for just a minute. E reached into his pocket to show me two prepped rigs, which sounded like an even better idea. So we went behind the project/crackhouse and hit that shit up.

The minute I pulled the rig out of my arm, I realized that shot had been wayyyyyyyyyy too much for my already-overloaded body to handle and I was teetering on the edge of cardiac arrest. The entire world went upside down and all the colors changed and got brighter. I couldn't breathe, but my heart sure was beating. I heard a voice saying something, sounded like "eh itegur." Didn't sound like E's voice, so I looked up. I heard the voice again, only now I understood the words: someone was saying "hey white girl." But I couldn't see a person, all I saw was a dark shadow ending in a long shiny object. My cranked up brain gave me a logical explanation for this phenomenon: it was a spirit holding a magic wand. I reached out to grab it.

Suddenly I was pushed to the floor, hard, from behind. Just as my face hit dirt, I felt something whizzing over my head which culminated in a *whack* *thump*, then my hand was forcibly grabbed and yanked very hard. I saw E's face, his eyes wild, staring at me through my fog. He was the one pulling on my hand, screaming "run! Run Michelle, fucking run NOW!!!"

When someone I trust tells me to fucking run NOW, I fucking run NOW. I half-ran and was half-dragged by E down Nebraska Avenue, away from where the "dark spirit" had offered me the "wand." Of course neither of us knew the Tampa city streets from our assholes, so we ran away from rather than towards anyplace. Finally, we saw a taxi and E practically jumped on the hood trying to get it to stop. That was when I looked over at him and for the first time realized that he was holding one of those huge curbstones... and it was covered in blood.

To this day I'm still amazed that the taxi picked us up, although the Benjamins thrown into the driver's window probably didn't hurt much. I asked E what the fuck had just happened, and he told me to just chill. By our description of the tile mural outside a Cuban restaurant, the cabbie was able to take us back to the Range. It didn't matter how fucked up we were, we had to get out of this town before something bad happened. When we finally got to the car and E was driving away from Tampa, we lit up a blunt to calm down while E explained what went down.

Apparently my dark spirit was a scary looking black crackhead, and the magic wand was a huge fucking switchblade. E, who was just as fucked up as I was apparently, decided to take fast action. He picked up one of those huge fucking curbstones that surrounded the project, pushed me down to the ground, and swung that curbstone over my head and directly into the face of my would-be assailant. Then we ran. Why he didn't let go of the heavy-ass curbstone while running, he couldn't tell me except to say "my fist was clenched so hard, I forgot I even had it... I couldn't feel my hand except to drag you." Now that's a good friend AND a hard ass motherfucker, am I right? We never went back to Tampa.

That's my story. Remember, it happened in the past, when there was no baby and I didn't have a year clean. All right E, was that a good story that made you sound gangster enough? And it's true to boot.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

so that my girl can steal lunches safely

Lucas dressed as some Watchmen character for a nerd convention
(no offense little brother)
big smiles with grandma

two seconds after the previous pic

see the cloth diapers?
doesn't like the flash
we gave her a Mad magazine...
...and just look at how much fun she had!

we get tons of catalogs that she can rip up too

lucas and dad got her this shirt in NYC- plus matching socks

Well, my girl got sick. Poor baby Jasmyne. I took her to her pediatrician a couple times, and he sent me to a pediatric gastroenterologist. He wanted a sample of her shit, which was of course tons of fun to get into the little tubes: I put saran wrap on her butt before pinning the diaper shut (yes, I old-school flat cloth diapers with diaper pins) and when she shat, I pulled off the saran wrap and squeezed the shit out into the tubes. Fun, right? Hell, I've done worse. Apparently she's shitting blood and mucus, and after some shit-testing figured out why: Jasmyne has food allergies. It makes sense, since allergies run in the family. I got strange allergies- I can't have ibuprofen, mushrooms, maple syrup, or oysters (although other shellfish treat me right).

What I didn't know about food allergies is that you can't test for them in a baby under 11 months. So the specialist gave me a list of foods that she should avoid until they can do an allergy panel and said that if she's still got the same symptoms in 2 weeks then he will try something else, but he seems pretty confident that it's allergies. Here's the fun part: Jasmyne doesn't eat solids or drink formula, she is *exclusively* breastfed. Therefore, she is reacting to something that I am eating, and this list of no-no food applies to me. Shitburgers. It's called the "breastfeeding elimination diet". Here is the list of food I cannot eat to protect the bubby:
  • soy (check food labels, EVERYTHING has soy in it)
  • dairy (my favorite foods on this earth are cheese/butter/milk-based)
  • eggs (no baked goods or sweets)
  • nuts (this wouldn't be so bad, 'cept I really love peanut butter)
  • seafood (no more sushi or crab legs)
  • whey (that's in some "non dairy" or "dairy-replacement" products)
  • lecithin (an additive; always follows the word "soy" so it's redundant
  • casein (part of cheese, also redundant)

So not only did I give up my drugs, my job, my money, my independence, my adventures, and (I'll admit it) my good writing ability for this kid, but it's not enough. Now I can't eat any good food either. It is very, very, VERY obnoxious and I have been walking around the house pissing and moaning about how I can't have anything delicious. Also, Jaz can't start solids until about 8 months because of the food allergies. Even the organic brown-rice first-food infant cereal has fucking soy fucking lecithin! What kind of shit is that, organic infant food containing a common allergen? Lame! I'm gonna be one of those bitch moms who wants the entire school to ban peanut products so that my girl can steal lunches safely. Wait... I forgot, I like freedom! I believe that taking care of problems like this is the parent's responsibility, not the schools' and surely NOT other parent's problem. My e-friend's first grade niece got yelled at, humiliated in front of her classmates, and suspended for 3 days for the cardinal offense of... eating peanut butter crackers at lunchtime. That's fucking retar... I mean, mentally disabled. : )

So anyways, I stopped eating anything that tastes good and Jazzy is already getting better (the doc told me 2 weeks for a full improvement) and then some other shit happened to her. I was at [non-specific playplace in which I feel very safe with her and will not jeopardize that by giving out the location to you shitwhores] and she was laying on her belly in the infants section, pushing herself up and down and grinning like a maniac. She is such a happy baby. Then I see this little boy, couldn't be more than 2 years old, running full speed ahead to our left. At the last second, he turned and jumped right where Jasmyne was playing.

I was standing right next to her to keep her from rolling onto the floor, but this kid was so damn FAST that I didn't see what was about to happen until it happened. He kicked her right in the side and she tumbled off the [non-specific shape of playplace climbing item] right on her face. She screamed like... well, like someone had kicked her onto the floor from about two-and-a-half feet up. I scooped her up and the little boy's mama ran over and pulled him aside to yell at him or whatever. I calmed my girly down in about 2 minutes- she was angry and more than a little scared, but she wasn't actually hurt (yes, I got her checked out just to be safe). The other mom made the little boy apologize to both me and Jasmyne, and then she apologized too and asked if my girly was ok. I know that little kids exist that will hurt a baby on purpose, but one look at his face (especially his sad brown eyes) told me that he wasn't one of them. He was torn up over the fact that he hurt the baby, plus he was only two years old. What a little sweetheart.

The next day, I found out once and for all that poor Jazzy just canNOT catch a fucking break. She has a fungal infection all over her diaper area, which apparently is from all the watery bloody mucous-y shitting she's been doing before the doc gave me the no-no list, and needs a prescription diaper cream to get rid of it. My poor little baby girl. She is so happy though, even through all this nonsense, she barely ever cries and has such a gorgeous full-face smile.

There is my update- y'all fuckers happy now? I am down to 15mg of methadone per day, which is awesome since I went up to 100mg/day at my highest point. See y'all bitches later.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

the toxicity of her diseased sloppy bat-wings

Okay, I have something to say to Jake. He reads my blog and makes comments on my ignorance, so now I shall talk about some of the stupid things I read on Call Me Jake's "Because You Know I'm Right". And there are some stupid fucking things there! Maybe we have more in common than he'll ever admit to himself...

First off, props:
"Why can’t I hate gays? Plenty of people hate me in this world, so what’s wrong with me hating people back?"
Prejudice isn't the worst thing in the world, and what kind of country do we live in where you can only hate a man if he's straight and white? People make too much of a big deal about racism and "homophobia." But then he finished his hateful rant with one of the funniest things I've heard in a long time:
“What, faggots can take a dick up their ass but they can’t take a joke?”
Okay, shit- that's hilarious. They want equal rights, then take equal ribbing and hatred. Even shitty self righteous sons of bitches can be right (and funny) every once in a while.

Now, on to the stupidity:
"Below are some of the dumber arguments people have tried and the reason WHY they’re stupid statements... “A dollar bill says In God We Trust. If you don’t believe in god how can you believe in money”? RNJ LOVE this argument because it shows that they have actually seen a dollar bill before and that they can read. Just because I use American currency does not mean I have to believe in a god. I use currency because I have no choice. Its how this country works. The same as I have no power over who prints what on it. But as far as religion I DO have a choice."
I understand that most of the people that Jake hangs with are his special-ed classmates and inbred family members (mama-gramma and uncle-grampa, among others), so I'll give him the benefit of the doubt that he's actually heard people say that you have to believe in God to spend money. But to repeat it... how mean can you be to these people who have always given you a shoulder to drool on? Why don't you just explain to these people that... wait, your cousin-wife just started banging her head on the wall again and your daughter-sister is screaming... fuck it honey, just take away their money so they can't use it to preach the word any longer!

This is my favorite:
"There is a phrase I’ve been hearing a lot of lately and it’s finally come to the point where I want to puke. When either a woman, or a man, says “We’re trying to get pregnant” ... I got a newsflash for people. You’re not “trying to get pregnant”. You’re having sex and “hoping to get pregnant”. Trying to get pregnant would involve a big ass needle and a doctor. Hoping to get pregnant involves a whole lot of humping."
A woman doesn't get pregnant with a needle Jake honey, she gets pregnant with a penis. Most of us learned that in 5th grade sex education. It's the way it's been since humanity was created. Trying to get pregnant involves sex. Hoping to get pregnant involves crossing your fingers and praying to Allah. But once again, I understand. I think I understand why he believes that sex isn't the way to get pregnant. See, to understand Jake, you must know a little something about Jake's origins.
His mother used to be a $5 whore, but no one would go near that kitty of hers without double-bagging their dicks. Usually when the sex was over, most of the first condom was sizzling, having been eaten away by the toxicity of her diseased sloppy bat-wings- making the second condom not just useful, but necessary if you wanted to keep your dick. Sometimes they even triple-bagged, although the third bag went over her head (a necessary measure if you wanted to keep your lunch down).
Anyways, she couldn't get pregnant because no one could possibly be drunk or horny enough to hit that toxic poon raw (until Jake did, but that's not until much later), but she really wanted a kid so that she had a less-suspicious coke mule for her black pimp. So she went to the doctor, who removed her last crusty egg and placed it in a test tube for her, which she fertilized with a couple spoofuls of cum from her bedside spit-bucket, and then put the whole mess into a turkey baster and slammed it home.
Six and a half months later, Jake was born premature. HIV positive, and with severe brain damage. As he grew, she proudly told him how he came to be instead of the normal discussion about 'the birds and the bees'. So you can't really blame him for that kind of stupidity- although it's pretty funny, no?

Last but not least:
"Everything on this page is copyrighted, but I know it won't stop people from stealing it and claiming it as their own."
Riiiiiiiiight. Keep telling yourself this, Jakey-poo. I wouldn't claim this tripe as my own if I wrote it on my own and it took me years to figure out. Just in case anyone mistakes this shit as mine, I will add my own disclaimer:
Everything in italics on this blog post was NOT written by Shelley, it was only made fun of by Shelley. And for people like Jake, this is what italics look like.

Next post (maybe later today, maybe next week) I will discuss my baby girl and the disgusting things I am willing to do for her. Peace out, bitches. And by the way, the first person to find something I posted on Opiophile in the last year (or any other site I post on) discussing CURRENT (that means now) illicit drug use, you get the prize. And no, marijuana is NOT a drug so don't bother playing that game with me.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Got your money, gonna spend your money....

I don't care what anyone says, I think this monkey cartoon is fucking hilarious!