The One Time Drugs Were Cool, and Why Writing Is My Drug of Choice

I've been ficcing all day and am now pleasantly stuporous from the satisfaction of a hard day's mental toil. I've never done so much as pot in my life for fear that it would do irrevocable harm to my oddly-wired brain, but I like to think that this is what it would be like to take a long toke from the magical herb. I'm logy and wobbly and frog-eyed, and if one were to engage me in conversation now, I'd likely gaze at them in sanguine, dreamy bemusement, a drunk sitting happily astride a magnificent booze bubble drifting ever higher into the stratosphere. All that's missing is the tremulous weightlessness that comes in the wake of a spectacular wank.

Actually, the sensation that accompanies a good day's writing reminds me of the one time I took Baclofen, a prescription muscle relaxant. I wanted to have sexual intercourse with my then-boyfriend, but CP-related spasticity was hampering my best and most ardent attempts to open my oil derrick for business, so I popped a Baclofen as per my doctor's instructions.

That was the best night of my life, and not because of the sex. I was so stoned that I no longer gave a fiddler's fart(or a fiddler's fuck, come to think of it)if I got laid. I just slumped in a chair and reveled in the alien experience of being in body that didn't begrudge my every move. I remember thinking, "Is this how it's supposed to feel, life, how it's supposed to be? No wonder people indulge their bodies so much."

Before anyone waxes rhapsodic about the profundity of those thoughts, it should be noted that I also spent a great deal of time giggling and drooling on myself unawares. Plato and Kant I was not.

Still, it was odd to be inside a body that fit, odd and wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that I refused to take another pill and threw them out because I was terrified that I'd like it too much, come to need it with an addict's fervor. My lover never plumbed for oil and was quite put out, and the familiar, ugly tension returned to my muscles the next morning, but I've never forgotten the unique experience of painlessness, of mental and corporeal cooperation.

A good day's writing doesn't make the nagging physical discomfort of CP disappear, but it makes me believe that it could if I just typed one more word, one more line. It's the next best thing and a hell of a lot cheaper, and at least it doesn't make me drool on myself.

So the next best thing is good enough for me.