Drugs & Alcohol Don't Mix

I spend quite a bit of time in my memories.  This helps me do this time, but not become a part of this life here.  Some guys give in, and prison becomes all they know.  We call them institutionalized.  Like have you seen “The Shawshank Redemption?”  Some guys wouldn’t know what to do if they were let out of here.  I refuse to let that happen to me.

There are a couple ways I work to stay in touch with the free world.  My memories are one of the biggest.  I’ve done a lot of shit in my life.  There are some really cool things I’ve done, and a lot of un-cool things I’ve done.  It’s it weird how it’s the stupid shit we remember?  …Not the stuff that goes right. 

Like for example, the other day I tried to remember all the names of girls I’ve been ‘friends’ with.  What should come to mind but my sexual ‘mishaps?’  Not the times everything went according to plan.  There’s the time my buddy set up in the closet to video – I actually forgot he was there.  …Until he came crashing out the door into the room.  That chick didn’t call back! 

Then there are the big girls.

I’m a big fan of Jager-bombs.  However, I tend to black out and not remember a thing that happened.  Have you ever woke up looking at a ceiling you don’t recognize?  …Looked to your side and saw a pretty large girl you’re sure you didn’t consciously decide to go home with?  After you throw up a little in your mouth, you lightly slip out of the bed, gathering your clothes as quietly as possible, checking to be sure your number isn’t saved in her cell phone.  The last time this happened to me I called my friend to come pick me up.  The call went like this:

“John?  Hey bro, can you come pick me up?”

Dude!  Do you know what time it is?

“Yeah, man!  Just come pick me up!”

Ok, ok.  FUCK… where are you?

“Um… shit….  I don’t know.”

Well, what street signs do you see?

"None.  I don’t know.  I’m in a neighborhood."

Ok, asshole, you wake me up to pick you up and you don’t fuckin’ know where you are?

About this time I see a guy cutting his grass.  His two kids are in the driveway riding bikes.  I walk toward him to ask where I am.  He shuts off the lawnmower and gives me this disgusted look from head to toe, which causes me to do the same.  Ok, so I buttoned my shirt crooked.  Oh wait!  Is that puke on my shoes?  Sure is!  …Splashed all the way up to my knees.  He gives me hasty directions.

I don’t even know fat-chick’s name, but I will never forget the encounter.  I don’t remember the sex either.  I do wonder where I puked.  I didn’t see it when I woke up.  Was it in her car?

During my drinking days I was pure hell on wheels.  I was staying with my dad for a while.  There’s a local bar in his little town called The Oar House.  I soon found out the locals call it “the whore house.”  …For good reason - and I grew to love the place. 

Now, there are a few medications that advise against mixing them with alcohol.  I never heeded such warnings.  Telling me not to do something is like saying, “This is gonna be really cool!”  So before I left Dad’s place, I ate two Xanax bars.  So far so good.

I then drive to – what else? – the whore house.  The evening is going good, and then everything starts to get fucked up.  Really fast.  People are just looking at me.  I’m getting sick.  I need to leave.  So I jump in my truck to head home.  It’s ok folks, I do this all the time.  Halfway home I forget where I am and stop for directions.

The police report reads like this:

Mr. Smith pulled up to the guard shack of the Palisades Nuclear Power Plant at approximately 3:20 a.m.  He was lost and asked for directions.  The guard stationed in the booth observed Mr. Smith slurring his speech.  He asked Mr. Smith to pull over to the side and please wait.  Mr. Smith complied with directions and we were called to the scene approximately 20 minutes later.  Mr. Smith was sleeping in his truck.  He was placed under arrest at 4:10 a.m.

I woke up at the Van Buren County Jail the next day with a headache.  My first call was to my dad.  He wouldn’t answer.  I finally reached my mom.  That conversation went like this:

“Mom, it’s Michael.”

Yes son, I know who you are… (in a very disgusted tone of voice).

“Where’s Dad?  I’ve been trying to call him.”

He doesn’t want to talk to you.

“I’m in jail, Mom!”

Your dad knows.  The police called him at 4:30 a.m. to come and get your truck.

(Oh shit.  Not good!)

“Well, Mom… can you help me?”

Son, your dad thinks we should leave you in there for a while, so you can learn a lesson from this.  Your drinking is out of control son.

Not good!  Three days later I was still there.  Needless to say, I had to resort to plan B.

So I call my wife.  Yes, I said wife. 

The next day I was released to her custody.  Wearing the same clothes I left Dad’s in four days earlier.  The wife and I were on a “temporary” break.  …One of many over the seven years of our marriage.  I recall the conversation we had, and I remember wishing I had stayed at the county jail.

My sexual mishaps and drinking excursions go on and on.  I was a prick, an asshole, and a cheater.  Those were my wife’s words exactly.  The divorce papers say ‘Irreconcilable differences,’ of course, but I know better. 

It’s said that drugs and alcohol don’t mix.  I’ve tried to disprove this theory many times over the years; ecstasy and whip-its, coke and weed, liquor and pills, meth and G.H.B.  Unfortunately I have a divorce, a D.U.I., a few crashed cars and man, many pissed-off people to prove this doesn’t pay… along with jails, detention centers, and prison time.  Thank God my mother still loves me.  Let’s pray she never reads this shit!

…Speaking of my mom… we were chatting on the phone the other day.  Mom mentioned a last name and asked if I knew it.  I said, “Sure, they ran that little business in town.”

Mom says, “Didn’t you go to school with their daughter?”

Sure did!  That big girl took my virginity – one of my first ‘mishaps.’

…I guess something to that effect came out of my mouth.  Imagine that.

Mom says, “OH MY GOD!  I didn’t need to hear that!”

Turns out that girl works with my mom now – well, sorry!  I mean, what the hell, Mom?  Don’t ask me loaded questions.  You know I don’t have a filter when it comes to this shit!  My give-a-damn broke a long time ago!

You know who you are.  If you read this, Mom said you lost some weight, are really good at your job, and are happily married.  …Just so you know.  


Some more needless bullshit:

Buck: Name for prison wine made from fermented oranges or tomatoes.
Punk or Sissy: Term for a gay man in prison.
Boy: The less-manly partner in a gay prison relationship.
Main-Man: Go-to guy for getting stuff you're not supposed to have.
Snitch: The guy who tells the police you have that shit.