A few weeks ago, I was engaged in a Facebook conversation about Ambien. Specifically, sharing Ambien stories. I have a habit of being brutally honest on occasion, allegedly, from what I’m told. My Ambien stories were only outdone by my lack of finances. My friend, “Brain”, bought a fucking jeep off EBay. I can’t even begin to top that until I hit the Lotto.
I’ve already mentioned in previous blogs that I have a tad bit of an alcohol issue. Specifically, it makes me batshit crazy(er). I’m certain I shocked the Facebook thread with my best Ambien story. Let’s just say that when paired with red wine and beer, Ambien is a bitch. Toward the last few months of my relationship with alcohol, she had become somewhat boring and I began to stray. Ambien was such a whore. She slipped right in on me in my weakest moments. Looking all refined and classy in her little pharmacy bottle and throwing around her “legitimacy”. Saying all the right things, like, “I am OK because I was prescribed”. She helped me sleep for more than 4 hours at a time. Hell, I didn’t even need alcohol to sleep. I slept like a baby with Ambien.
But, as time went on, I wanted the chips and the dip so to speak. So, I didn’t leave alcohol. I just started seeing her and Ambien. I wasn’t my first affair. There was a couple of other runs, with Vicodin (another classy one) and then a fling with a flaky Colombian. But my heart was always with my one true love, alcohol. I just couldn’t quit her. We were like the guys up on Brokeback Mountain. When I tried to mix her with the others, she lost her allure.
But, I think mixing her with Ambien was the worst. Ambien wasn’t like the others. Ambien didn’t make me wanna talk. For days. She didn’t make me wanna watch Pineapple Express or listen to the Pulp Fiction Soundtrack or try to have sex. Nope. She made me fucking crazy.
There was one night I “came to” at 4 am on the patio in nothing but “mah panties”. Another time, my girlfriend found me downstairs in the fetal position on the sofa. Naked. Another she found me sitting on the front porch steps in a T-Shirt and socks. Nothing else. At all. I “came to” one night sitting fully clothed in the tub. Thankfully, she had not drawn me a bath. I’ve got a dozen magazine subscriptions courtesy of her. There are many more stories, but I’m giving myself an anxiety attack as I type.
Alas, the two best ones were doozies. Once I snuck off without alcohol. Just me and Ambien and Vicodin. The sluts. They hit me upside the head on my way back from CVS. I walked out to my car the next morning to see it sitting on a bent rim. A chunk of curb stuck in the tire. That was the final straw. I couldn’t handle that violence.
Prior to that, there was this one time that should have been the ending. I turned up a full bottle of beer, discovered it tasted weird to me, spit it all over my living room and yelled, “Which one of you motherfuckers put cocaine in my beer?!” No one said a word. Until they started laughing. All except my human girlfriend. Who was pissed. (She had an issue with me bringing Ambien into my relationship with alcohol and I had promised not to do it anymore- psych). Party Pooper the buzz kill struck again.
I eventually left alcohol. That was the common denominator in my most awesome fuck ups. Ambien still steps in a few nights a week to soothe my needs. Vicodin hasn’t been around in months. That Colombian in years. I’m told it’s best this way. Just stick to what the doctor ordered. And thank you party pooper buzzkill voters of Florida. I was fucking looking forward to THC pills followed by EPIC cake eating and laughter.