There is something magical that happens when you get your wisdom teeth out. You get a prescription for a pain killer called Hydrocodone.
Hydrocodone is a nifty, little pill made from codine and some other crap. It, not only, relaxes you into a deep sleep, but also makes you have the fucking weirdest dreams as well. Why, just the other night I had a dream that I was in a corn field with Lambo and she was trying to beat and kill me with a crow bar. In the dream she said, "I want my hair to be red." Since her hair is almost white blonde from monthly salon visits, she meant (in the dream) that she wanted her hair to be red from my blood. Creepy, no?
Another dream that entered my subconscious mind was about me hunting for scrabble pieces in the Mayan ruins. When I finally found all of the pieces, I could not grab them, for I was not human, but a fucking wolf. Not having opposable thumbs is shitty when trying to grab those little scrabble fuckers.
My adventures with this wonder pill started on the day of my oral surgery.
It all started about two thursdays ago, at 7 a.m. when my mother took me to my oral surgeons office to get all four of my wisdom teeth out. My mom sat in the room as they prepared me for lift-off. And, boy, did I go places.
The laughing gas started to infiltrate my blood stream when I had noticed that my oral surgeon was a particularly good-looking male specimen. He was in his early forties with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that could melt a barbie's plastic vag. He had big, green eyes and was pretty fit for an older man. I could tell that the drugs were working when I had started to imagine that I was married to my this surgeon.
"How you feeling, okay?" He asked as he looked at me with an angled arial view.
"Yes, I'm good." I closed my eyes and just listened to the noises that were happening around me. I heard clicking of tools and banter between the nurse, the surgeon and the drug pusher with an IV. I knew my mother was sitting in the room still but I did not have enough energy to talk to her. About another minute passed when he asked about my status again and I responded with...
"You're a silver fox." It was then that I just did not care about censorship. "If we get married, can you install one of these machines in our house?" I could hear everybody in the room snicker. I was serious. At the moment, I did not care the he was old enough to be my father. He was a hot doctor who probably made bank. I was down.
I had drifted into Oz while my acoustic list played on my ipod. I really could not feel any thing besides my mouth being open (whore). However, when they went to dig out my bottom left wise tooth, I felt a nerve being aggravated and I squeezed my left hand on the dentist chair and remembered thinking, "That's gunna be a bitch when this novocaine wears off." And, man, was it fucking ever!!!
I chewed on bloody gauze for about a day and a half. I was in a daze for quite a bit and was popping the hydrocodone like candy, every 4 hours. They made me feel like I was floating on a cloud of puff pastries and peanut butter rainbows. My jaw felt like I had tried to chew up a razor blade. My face felt like a fluffed-out muffin top filled with coppery-tasting cotton. I looked like the poster child of what would make, even the most veral of men, unhorny.
After a few days, I just wanted solid food. Mashed potatoes and snack pack pudding were just not doing it for me anymore. I hope to one day regain respect for yogurt, as well. And cream of wheat? More like cream of go-fuck-your-mother. If I ever see cooked squash again, I will sacrifice it to the porcelain Gods and drink hatorade the whole time as I am doing it. And for the record, tomato soup is only good with goldfish (crunchy), cheddar cheese (lumpy), basil (leafy) and a hot, buttery, melty grilled cheese. All of which cannot be consumed by one who has had their Retard teeth extracted from their jawline.
My left bottom side of my lip was numb, as was the entire left side of my mouth. Even though it was all numb, the dull pain of hitting my jaw nerve was penetrating the surface. Where are my pills?
Since, Hurricane Irene struck lower Fairfield County pretty hard during that week, my generator-less house was in complete darkness. I had three candles lit in my room and my battery-powered Ipod dock on my bed, playing some soothing tunes. I decided to go hunting for my hydrocodone in the kitchen. I hated that kitchen at the moment. I wanted some soup, but we did not have power. No soup for me. I eventually made my mom useful and persuaded her to heat up soup on the grille, like a hillbilly in their element. Considering the fact that my father is a well-known hoarder and has had two boat carcasses in our back yard since I was at the age where I still ran after the ice cream man naked, the hillbilly status shot through the roof.
I was starving for a solid meal when I locked myself into my dark cave of a room and gnawed on a hydrocodone. Eventually, I fell into a deep dreamer sleep. My stomach was growling as I dreamed of a big deli sandwich with Italian chicken cutlets, gooey cheese, crisp lettuce, ripe tomatoes, Russian dressing on freshly baked Italian baguette. I could taste the crunch in my mouth and I adjusted my sleeping position to further enhance my subconscious sandwich-eatings. It was everything I wanted.
When I finally awoke, about two hours later, I found myself drowning in a pool of my own saliva. And I mean that stretchy, long, kind of saliva that you see in movies like Alien vs. Predator. I guess my salivary glands responded to the idea of my mouth actually consuming said sandwich. My mouth had produced enough saliva to coat a small child and its doll. I was impressed with myself, obviously.
I was finally feeling alive enough to go out into the real world when Lambo came over a day later. She was hankering for a deli sandwich. Bitch, so was I. The difference between her and I was she did not just have her wizzies ripped from her cushy gums and I did, bloody sockets that tasted like chicken soup and all.
As she placed her sandwich order at the deli, located in the center of my town, I started to feel light-headed. It was warm that day and I had just taken one of my beloved pills about an hour previous to this moment. Uh-oh. I smell a situation.
"I am going to go wait outside, I need some air." I said to Lambo.
"Awww, okay, I will see you out there."
I went to sit on one of the patio tables right next to the Post Road, outside of the deli. I felt like I was going to vom. There were people scattered all around me. Shit. I put my head in between my legs and breathed through my mouth heavily. My skin started to feel clammy. I knew something odd was about to happen and I did not want it to carry out in front of all of these people, so I calmly removed myself to the barren side of the building. That is when I attempted to sit down on the pavement. In a flash, as if time lapsed, I woke up looking towards the sky. I do not recall exactly how I had ended up in an upward-facing position, but I came to the conclusion that I fainted during my attempt to sit down. Cool.
If that was not embarrassing enough, a skinny, blond, soccer mom had approached me. "Are you okay, dear?"
"I don't think so. I think I may need to go to the hospital." I was shaking and holding back vomit.
An ambulance was called and my anxiety grew when I came to the realization that I must have looked like the town drunk on the side of the road. Lambo stuck by my side throughout the whole endeavor. Little kids with their popsicles watched as I got placed onto a stretcher and hauled into the truck. I put a towel over my face and I pretty much cried from embarrassment. Lambo started yelling at the crowd to move along. I must admit that the parents of this town should know better than to let their children stare at a sick person. Fuck you and you're fat, fucking children.
There is a time and a place where I cannot get enough of being the center of attention, but this was definitely the antithesis of how I would want to be noticed. And, of course, I knew half of the volunteer EMS squad helping me out. The level of awkward air that was flowing around me was only getting heavier when a high school EMT tried to stick an IV into my arm.
It was not until I was in the hospital, did I realize that Little Miss Sally EMT High School Pants did not stick the tube in my arm the correct way. And neither did the blood lady at the hospital. About four tries later, somebody finally tapped a vein on my hand. I looked like a rape victim with the amount of bruises I had from these damn needles. Like, no one knew how to do this? No one?
After hours of being poked by needles and sitting in the ER with my mom and Lambo, I was getting frustrated when nobody had come around with an IV of fluids for me. I was promised fluids twice. I got no fluids, twice. Time to be a bitch!
"Hello? I am supposed to be hooked up to fluids and I have been waiting for two hours. I may have died by now, but nobody here seems to really care, so..." I said to the large black lady in the ER lobby at her desk.
"Okay, honey, let me go find someone for you." She disappears for a half hour. I was not happy. Now I was hungry too. A hungry Italian is a mad Italian.
"Alright. I want to leave and nobody has hooked me up to fluids. I just want to go home and I will drink like a gallon of cranberry juice." I said to the Indian doctor, who pretended like she cared about my well-being.
"Oh, it says in the computer that you were already hooked up." At this point, I almost exploded. Was she kidding? I mean, did the fact that I had had no ball sac full of fluid hooked into my arm give her any sort of clue that I was not hooked up to said fluids? Or the fact that I was sitting there, complaining that I had yet to be hooked up to anything give her a hint? Like, seriously, bitch...WAKE UP!
"Well, I was not hooked up to anything and I have been here for two and a half hours and all I have to show for it is bruises and an unused IV tube. I just want to go home." I bitched away.
She finally sent me on my merry way. The three of us huffed and puffed about how ridiculous the afternoon had ended up as we made our way to the car. When we got home, all I could think about was a melty sandwich which I could not open my mouth wide enough to fit down the hatch. Instead of a sandwich, we went out and got frozen yogurt with all of the toppings one could dream of. Cheesecake bits, fruit poppies, strawberries, coconut, caramel...you name it. These were not cheap frozen yogurt adventures either. A full cup was about $7. The three of us could have essentially shared one, for we each only ate about $2 dollars worth of our own. THERE ARE STARVING CHILDREN ALL OVER THE WORLD AND WE COULDN'T EVEN CARE TO FINISH OUR FRO YO!
Sometimes, yogurt does not tickle pickles when you are craving a man-sized deli sandwich with all the bells and whistles. There really is no substitution for the salty crunch of bacon upon a plethora of other sophisticated slabs of meat and toppings. I wanted it in my mouth. My stomach wanted to embrace it like a lost lover. My intestines were sick of this mushy crap and I was getting sick of pooping like an infant.
Days later, I was able to eat people food when I had to make my way up to Danbury, where my college is located. The day was full of chasing teachers and advisors who needed to sign some papers for studying abroad. The night was full of ridicuousness and *Fabio.
About a two weeks before I had gotten my damn teeth taken out, I was hollared at by this girl I had met in my Biology class at my college. We had sat next to one another in our lab for the first few weeks until she had stopped coming under the excuse that she had been nannying really late on the nights before our early a.m. bio lab. This was a lie. I liked her style.
*Barbie is a tall, model-esque blonde who will send me texts, every so often, about the status of her farts and how she wants to make love to me on a bear skin rug. The first time I had met her in our class, I was so tired from drinking the night before that I told her that I would be right back after I slept for 20 minutes in the bathroom stall. I sensed that we understood where each other was coming from in life.
After months of hetrosexual, yet lesbian texts and facebook comments to one another, we finally were able to commence at a bar in South Norwalk this past August. She told me she was going to bring her friend *Fabio with her, who was an Abercrombie model. My reaction was, "Oh, Jesus, fucking models..." Since I had a preconceived notion of models and their attitudes, I was convinced he would be hitting on Lambo and her rack all night, as per usual with any guy.
For the record, I have never seen an Abercrombie model that I did not want to lick from head-to-toe... on repeat. However, I had had a recent disaster earlier in 2011 with a different Abercrombie model, who proved to be probably one of the biggest pieces of shit I had met, within the year. So I tend to be various shades of jade when dealing with models. No amount of hotness will ever make-up for treating another person like they are subordinate and stupid. The flirtation ended with him getting frustrated towards me for not knowing how to direct him to my apartment in the middle of the night, when it was snowing, over the phone. I honestly had no idea what street names he was spewing to me and I told him to just go home because the party at my apartment was over anyway. He then texted me, "I think it's best if you don't call me ever again. This is ridiculous." ...Well, then go suck a dick, you loser. He later tried to apologize to me that week when my friend from school would not respond back to him asking her on a date. She told him that she did not like the way he treated her friend (me) and that she was not interested in seeing him. He was only apologizing to make nice with her. So, I called him out on his personality flaws and told him to go fuck himself. So, that was that.
Lambo picked me up and we met Barbie and Fabio at the bar, along with Big Jew and her date *Yoshi. Yoshi was a hot Asian who had gone to school with me since I was nine years old. Big Jew and I ran into him in SoNo the weekend before and he ended up asking her out. Needless to say, it was quite an odd group of people to sit together in a bar. There was a barbie, a male model, a comedian, a big jew, a huge rack and a hot Asian. This night could only get more interesting by the minute.
Barbie and I decided that we needed alcoholic fuel as Fabio stood beside the both of us at the bar. I suggested shots. Naturally, seeing as the only male in the bunch said, "I will get them," I assumed that he meant for all of us. When he turned around after paying, he had but two shots. One for him and one for Barbie. Oooooh, so he was one of these kinds of guys. Like, I called it. He was also quite shy for someone who gets pictures taken of his abs for a job. I turned to the bar and bought myself a shot and a beer... this was going to be a long night.
I sat back down next to Lambo as she asked, "Is he serious? Did you just buy that shot yourself?" To which I replied, "I fucking don't care, he is a model... most of them don't even see me because I am so short." I laughed as I swallowed my beverages. Lambo and I pretty much hate the idea of either of us dating anyone. Not because of jealousy, but we both think the world of one another and do not think anybody is good enough to date the other. We always point out the flaws of the other person's current spouse man. She gets defensive when somebody does not treat me with respect and I am the same back to her.
She ended leaving early that night, due to not feeling well enough to stay out, when Barbie and I meandered around the bar and into the bathroom where we met a lovely, young transvestite named "Tara". Tara complained to us, for about two minutes, crying and weeping over the fact that her friends only use her for her black AMEX. She then offered to buy us drinks for the rest of the night for being so nice to her. I should have realized when she said "Just tell the bartender to put it under Tara (no last name)" and the fact that she was holding her AMEX in her hand that we were not getting drinks from this bitch. I was already about three drinks deep when Barbie and I happened upon the bar to order under Tara's name. It was a fail, of course. It was then when a silver fox in a blue blazer offered to buy us drinks. I told him my name was Juliette and that I was a comedian from San Francisco, visiting Barbie, my model friend. The story was ad-libbed to a ridiculous extent when I realized that Barbie's poor friend Fabio was probably ensnared in the loud banter and epic hand movements of Big Jew. As much as I enjoy her myself, when first meeting said Jew, one should be prepared. Even though I had not gotten a great impression of him, his shy demeanor had to have been frightened by her bigness. Therefore, Barbie and I went back to the table.
Fabio decided to open his mouth when he offered to buy more shots. I expected nothing until he asked if I wanted one. Ah, somebody is trying to redeem himself? Hmmm. Well, I do like alcohol. Oh, alright, I will give you another chance. Pull my fucking arm.
It was not long until we moved on to the tequila bar down the block. More shots were taken. Fabio wasn't as much of a douche as I originally thought he would be. The model actually had something to say for himself. Do not ask about what, but it was enough to make me change my mind about the kid. Of course, tequila has always had a way of taking the edge off. At this point, Yoshi and Big Jew were getting ansy in their pantsy to leave. She approaches Fabio and I with a drunken doe-eyed look.
"What do I do with him?" She asked us, referring to the Asian she was holding hands with.
"Big Jew, just go... do whatever you desire." I apparently do not give good advice when intoxicated. Those words could get a bitch in trouble. And then... she disappeared into the night with Yoshi. It was in that moment that I imagined little, Jewish Asians running around and how her mother would kill her if this happened. Barbie was speaking Spanish to an old creepy Latin guy in the corner of the bar. Like, she would...
The rest of the night comes and goes in flashes for me now. I recall making out with Fabio, real hard, on the stage of Black Bear. Is that not just the definition of class? It's even better when nobody else is on said stage, but us. Reallllyyy cool.
The next day, I get a text from Barbie complaining about how her "fart box was violated so many times last night."
Over the next couple weeks, Fabio and I made the effort to get to know one another a little bit better. I like to know the person that I am sticking my tongue in. Call me old-fashioned?
My night in Danbury with Fabio involved a 21st Birthday party with all theater majors in a dorm with A LOT of whipped cream vodka, doing questionable things in a car with two of my black friends, ordering too much Taco Bell and a midnight escapade with the vodka at a beach. The night was topped off by the fact that I had nowhere to sleep but my car. Priceless.
I decided to sleep inside my jeep in the college parking garage, like a real drunken mess. May as well go the whole nine yards and have nowhere to sleep, right? Fabio was gentlemenly enough to offer to sleep in the car with me, since I am only a small lady and I would be stupidly sleeping in a sketchy garage. In exchange, I gave him one of my precious hydrocodone. I took one as well and we both drifted off to the Land of Nod for about three hours. My jeep may be one of the most uncomfortable cars to have to sleep in and I hope to never have to do that again, but knowing me, I probably will in the future times. I say my pills saved the day though, otherwise we would have never achieved that three hours of golden sleep.
You guys want a moral to the story? Well, Okay...here's a few.
Silver foxes love giving you mind-altering substances. Never judge a model's douchiness by the sexiness of his abs. Sleeping in your car is stupid, but everyone should do it once in their lives. And get your fill of sandwiches before you have no teeth.
Oh, and utilize hydrocodone with precaution.
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