Drugs, or the Best High Is the Legal High

I would like to offer an Official Apology to everybody I called Thursday when I was high. If you did not receive a Drug Dial, well frankly, you missed out. On Thursday, I started taking a new medication which had a particularly interesting reaction with my body chemistry. After about 20 minutes, I was woozy; after an hour, I was adoring life. That’s the point where I became especially amusing and since I live alone, there was nobody around to explain cell phones and medication don’t mix. Several of the Lucky Recipients of a Special Phone Call have let me know that I left “highly intriguing” and “better than the best drunk dial” messages that night. In one, I apparently described my previously unacknowledged love for a friend’s pedicured “fourth toe on the right foot not that I wanted the left foot or the other right foot toes to feel, like, left out or anything because I am sure all your toes are great but that one particular toe…” While my dignity insists she’s making that up, the voice on the machine sounds familiar.

I continued on the medication Friday morning and wisely let the Place of Lawyerly Things know I wouldn’t be there. By about 10:00, my Not High Mother became concerned by the excessive phone calls where I shared details of my love life. Knowing this was a clear indication that I was no longer in my right mind, she took me to the ER. She tolerated the next six hours by exploring what secrets she could get me to spill and otherwise laughing at my random stream of thoughts. While I think that’s generally against the Mom Code, she should still be sainted for staying with me while the medical professionals decided I was in fact high and it was in fact legal and it was in fact caused by a very bad drug reaction.

Anyway, when we arrived at the ER, I was not able to walk in a straight line so the Very Nice Man at the entrance put me in a wheel chair. I kept insisting he push me at Mock Five speed, but he let me know that his top speed was Mock One. While understandably disappointed, I made up for his lack of Mockness by making Zoom, Zoom sounds similar to those on the Mazda commercials. Only faster. And louder. Also, I felt it was important to try to counteract the pain and suffering of the others in the waiting room. In order to spread my little brand of happiness and cheer, I waived at every person and acknowledged their wound. “Hi Man With The Swollen Foot!” “Hi Woman Who I Don’t Know What’s Wrong But I Am Sure It Hurts!” “Hi Person With A Big Black Eye!” The Man With an Arm In a Sling wanted to know if he could have some of my drugs. Not High Mother wouldn’t let me share.

The triage nurse and I had an engaging conversation.
TN: So, could you please describe what’s wrong?
Me: I’m HIIIIIIGGGGGGHHHHEEEEEE! But legally! Really, legally! Mom! Show her the paper! The paper from the doctor! I have medicines! Medicines that make me HIIIIIIGGGGHHHHHEEEEE! I don’t think this is right but I liiike it!
TN: I see.
Me: I see, too!
TN: How much do you weight?
Me: A lot!
TN: I need a number.
Me: ONE! That’s a HIIIIIIGGGGHHHHHEEEE number!
TN: No, the number of pounds that you weight.
Me: One and other numbers!
TN: Um, we’ll just use the number in your file. Are your allergies are still sulfa and citric acid?
Me: And boys. Definitely allergic to boys right now.
TN: *Sniggers* Do you hurt anywhere?
Me: Are you kidding? No way, Jose! Because I’m HIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHE!
TN: Can you walk?
Me: Zoom! Zoom! Zoomzoomzooomzoom! *and then I decided it was a good time to reenact Britney Spears: The Videos From the Early Years

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