Monday, June 19, 2006

ThePeach Detoxes For a Week – Pah-raiiiise Jeeeeebus!

Anyone who reads my blog with some consistency knows that I like to dabble in the sauce. You might also know that I enjoy a fine toke of the pot from time to time. If you’ve read all of my stories, you might surmise that I’m a raging drunken pothead who tends to pick fight with strangers (“WHO ARE YOU CALLING A WHORE!?”) and feel up my hot friends (“Smell my hair…it’s ok to like it”) before going home and ravaging FauxHawk between rounds of vomiting and violent crying (WHYYYY GODDDD??!!! Oh, how I love the shout-vom) – nightly. You might be right, my friends. You might be right…

And up until last Saturday, it didn’t bother me one sweet fuck.

But last Saturday, I reached rock-bottom.

That Friday was WeeOne’s last night in UniversityTown (saaaad!). We celebrated by getting out of our mind, down on the floor, can’t get up, can’t stop laughing, can’t breathe, can’t walk home, can’t count change so you tip the cabbie $10 HIGH. Praise Allah were we ever HIGH. It was me, WeeOne, Cleavage, and TheHippie and our best friends: chips, chocolate, “Old School” and Mr. GreenJeans – the precious Bong. It was the best night ever. We watched “Old School” twice in a row because, you know, it seemed right. I remember claiming that I’d let Vince Vaughan rape me and everyone agreed. I remember “swimming” on the air mattress we were sitting on and everyone agreeing that it was the most beautiful swim ever. I remember that we made the best high-snack ever: fruit dipped in chocolate. And chips…also dipped in chocolate. It satisfied every sensation that a high person could ever desire: salty, sweet, crunchy, soft. It was, in a word, beautiful.

I remember getting home at 3:00am and lying in bed in a terrified stupor for 2 hours, convinced that the sound of the drippy tap in my kitchen was actually the sound of 2 or 3 rapists walking around my house trying to find something to rape. Despite the fact that I repeatedly got out of bed to check on the tap. The ‘noids….not so beautiful.

I woke up on Saturday 7/8ths dead. I have never had a hangover so bad. Every muscle in my body ached with the effort of trying to push out the THC. The world was moving in slow motion. I was nauseous, dizzy, confused, and still half-high. I started making poor decisions right away. Survival instinct kicked in and I knew that I would need to eat at some point. I knew my fridge contained icing and vodka. I would need to go to the store. Hey, since the store was right beside the gym – I should go there, too. Not because I felt the urge to exercise – my GOD no. No no no. No. But because I felt that if I didn’t somehow sweat out some THC, I would die of toxicity.

So, hungover, hardly functioning, still half-high, and crying with the effort of putting on pants, I made my first two poor decisions:

Go to store.
Go to gym.

I stumbled my way to the store in sweats and sunglasses, the uniform of hungover whores the world over. I took a loaf of bread off the shelf, deciding I could live off bread for the next week. I got in line at the checkout, and started sweating profusely. I couldn’t handle all the people, noise, lights, and standing up I had forced myself into. I started encouraging myself that I could do it: “Ok, peach. Just put the bread in front of the lady and take your debit card out of your purse. You can do this. Don’t talk to anyone. Just push your pin into the debit machine and get the fuck out of here. You can do this”. When people started looking at me, I realized that I had been speaking aloud. I purchased my bread and left.

I walked across the street to the gym. I drank 2 bottles of water sitting down in the change room, occasionally with my head between my knees. I stumbled to the elliptical, making my one smart decision of the day: that I would probably die on the treadmill. Somehow, in a miracle of science, I elliptical’d for 20 minutes without seeing the light. I figured that I wouldn’t push the miracle and got up to go, which is when I stumbled into one of FauxHawk’s friends: TheRadiologist. I was sweating way more than anyone else in the gym, and panting like a bitch in heat. I also had a ringing in my ears and couldn’t walk in a straight line. TheRadiologist tried to carry on a normal conversation with me, quickly realized that I was fucked, laughed, stop laughing and became concerned, and told me to go home. I’m sure FauxHawk got a nice little email in Central America recommending that I go into rehab immediately.

I made it home and remembered that I promised TheNurse that I would go to a friend’s birthday with her at 6. Oh, gentle jesus no. No No No. No. I made the decision right there that I would be detoxing that night. Then I thought – well, why don’t I make it a whole week? Give my body a chance to recover? Perhaps lose some of the 5 pounds that I gained while FauxHawk was gone? Regain some liver function? Some dignity?

Day 1 of Detox: The infamous hangover. I go to the birthday party still completely fucked up from the night before. I sit alone on the couch in a corner of the room and force myself to eat a hamburger. I try not to talk to people. They scare me. They get drunk. I start sobering up, FINALLY. At 11pm, I cab home and go to bed.
Conclusion: Detox = precious, precious sleep.

Day 2 of Detox: Shopping with TheHippie. See “This is Your Brain on Drugs”.
Conclusion: Pot has affected my short term memory.

Day 3 of Detox: Black-out. I assume I went to work, came home, went to bed. I think I went to the gym, because there were soggy lulus on my floor the next morning.
Conclusion: Detox has affected my short term memory.

Day 4 of Detox: Work sucks my testicles. I hate TheBoss. See “Yet Another Meeting With TheBoss”.
Conclusion: This might be why I drink.

Day 5 of Detox: Lesbian play. I take TheHippie, naturally. She shows up in a dress and I joke that she’s only going with me to pick up. I’m a bitch. On the way, a car with a pair of hot guys drives by and TheHippie comments that they’re probably going to the play, too. I look closer and realize that the hot guys are in fact butch women. TheHippie has dyke-dar. The audience is all lesbians. It is a sea of motorcycle helmets and hemp. TheHippie and I are the youngest, hottest lesbian couple. ThePlay is actually fantastic and I laugh and cry along with the rest of the lesbians. I feel empowered. On the way out, I sigh and tell TheHippie that I wish I were a lesbian for real, since it seems so nice.
Conclusion: It’s not just the sauce.

Day 6 of Detox: Joyous day!! A secretary in my office bakes me a cake in celebration of nothing! It is chocolatey and delicious and all mine. I eat it all day/night. I take it home with me so TheBoss won’t eat it and take the one joy I have out of my life. I go to the gym with TheHippie and weigh myself: I lost 3 pounds! The Detox is working! I go home and celebrate by eating cake with TheNurse.
Conclusion: Cake is the new sauce.

Day 7 of Detox: Relapse. TheBoss forces me to go for a drink with him after work. I immediately start saying inappropriate things to people in the throaty voice. I cut myself off at 1 drink and reassure myself that one slip-up doesn’t matter. TheHippie tells me that business drinks don’t count. We celebrate detox by making BBQ and watching “Cheaper By The Dozen” on TBS. I promise not to tell anyone how we spent our Friday night. I’m a liar and a whore.
Conclusion: Detox Fridays are lame.

Day 8 of Detox: The real test – a day at the cottage. Nothing says “drink, motherfucker!” like a day sitting on a floating dock in the sunshine. I resist. I still say inappropriate things in the throaty voice to TheNurse’s friends and shock and scare them. I sunburn. TheHippie and I go for a canoe trip and sing paddle songs in beautiful lesbian harmony when we’re out of earshot of the others. I promise not to tell anyone. I’m a liar and a whore. TheNurse's friend BigHarv ruins the moment by tipping the canoe. I threaten to kick his fucking ass multiple times.
Conclusion: I’m still inappropriate, full of rage, and oddly lesbian without the aid of alcohol.

Huzzah! I did it, bitches. One whole week clean.

I feel dirty, like I cheated on my lover alcohol with my dirty mistress sobriety. But I did lose 4 pounds. I did not regain any dignity.

To celebrate, I eat pie.



thehippie said...

your references to lesbianism has probably gone up 200-300% in the past few weeks. fauxhawk really needs to come home.

The Peach said...

Whatever, it's his own damn fault. A month is a long time to go without the cack when you're a whore.

On the bright side, this gave us (us being TheHippie and I) a chance to fall in love all over again. Tonight we celebrate our unified soul over the consumption of sushi at our favourite japanese restaurant.

Everyone should be so lucky as to have a boyfriend (TheNurse), a husband (TheHubby), and a soul mate (TheHippie).

To the sisterhood!

Billy said...

Here's to sushi!

...just ignore me...