Four joints and I'm still tonguing for more.
My name is Christian Fletcher and I'm a drug addict.
Ha, ha, ho, ho.
My grandma – the one with a penchant for brandy and not the one with a penchant for having another man's photo on her bedside table for her whole marriage – had a brandy every day for her entire life and nobody called her an alcoholic. Well? Not to her face. Certainly, nobody outside the family.
Once I get a taste for the "sickie" there's no stopping me. Lets just say that today is a mental health day to recover from all the dope I smoked over the weekend to ease the pain of my cold.
The light was kind of misty, this morning, no threat of the promised thirty something degrees, so I just rolled over and went back to sleep, after I'd made the call. The outside world looked kind of smudgy, like an impressionist view of itself. I nestled back down amongst the pastel colours and drift back to nod, not a single shred of guilt, to be detected.
I so wanted to get Manny over here, out of his pants and between me and the sheets, just to look down and kiss him in that light, but with his phobias, I knew as soon as I said the "C" word, I wouldn't see him for dust. And as I was sounding like Bette Davis - that would be from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane and not All About Eve {occasionally, I just have to be gayer than Xmax, it's in my genes} - I could see no way of hiding it.
So, I lay in bed, this morning and just pretended he was there... if you understand my meaning?
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