This one’s not really about creepers or, specifically, how to become one. It’s not even about bitches and hoes. Just a sad, sad self-realization…
“All this drinking is destroying my neurological synapses!”
This I loudly proclaim, as I rise from the edge of my bed, garbed in the same scantily meager mini skirt and tank top that I adorned twelve hours earlier. As I get up from my paralyzed position, the left side of my face swipes the lukewarm puddle of drool that has formed on my pillow top. Awesome way to start the morning, no? The full-body length mirror is a mere four steps to my left. Shall I have a look? Hmn, I think I’ll pass.. Oh man. Another long night of memory lapses. Or, rather, I should probably say “short” as I can only recall the first 2 hours or so.
Let’s recount the night. Oh yes, I definitely remember the bottle. The gallon-sized Grey Goose mini-tower that stood haughtily on our living room table. In just minutes, 128 fluid ounces of tenants seemed to dash out the front door, like the 5pm race to the parking lot after a long day at work. My bloodstream is I-280; congested and overwhelmed with this over-enthused traffic.
Oh wait, crap, I forgot something. I forgot about that damn Vicodin pill, taken moments earlier, routinely ingested at six-hour increments. Whoa, don’t get me wrong — this was not a voluntary action. I’m not a druggie! I’d just got one of my back molars pulled out. Random fact:Since I was 18, I pretty much forfeited the use of any kind of medicinal drugs, taking Advil or Tylenol only when faced with death. I have my medical-professioned parents to blame, who, since I can remember, were strong believers that medicine = health and that me and brothers were the perfect guinea pigs for their medical practices. There were many times when I’ve abruptly woken up in the middle of the night, most terrified of that menacing dark shadow looming over my body with a machete in its hand. That dark shadow was my mother, with a syringe, ready to give me all my Hep immunizations. (Note: None of this is fiction; you can even ask my little brother who never ONCE woke up from these shots — I, of course, seemed to be laddled with bad luck as I always awoke moments before insertion). SO YES, YOU CAN ONLY IMAGINE HOW TRAUMATIZING MY CHILDHOOD WAS. In all good intention though; how ever much they tortured me, I always and still love my parents.
Anywaysssss, rerouting back from my childhood tangent to the topic at hand… I didn’t realize how great the effect of (alch + pill) would be on my body. A few nights before, I had a couple of drinks and didn’t feel a thing. Needless to say, on this particular Saturday night, with Mr. G. Goose and Miss Vic, the rest of my night was a blur. Success.
Every time a night like this ensues, I always wake up the next morning with a) an impressive wedgie, and b) the feeling of my brain ever-so-slowly reconstructing itself to resemble more and more the EEG scans of Snookie.
BRAINDEAD. This wasn’t always the case. At one point of my life, I prided myself for my “larger-than average” (but probably average) network of neurological synapses. Rewind 16 years into the past when I was in 3rd grade. I was the quiet, nerdy Asian girl who never talked. With little friends and no signs of maturity, my self-proclaimed above-average intelligence was all I that I could capitalize on at the time. I probably wasn’t any smarter than the other kids, but my teacher definitely fueled my self-delusion! She gave me a laundry list of additional books to read. When I failed my first math test (I think it was on division), my teacher believed so much in my intelligence, she let me take it again — a leisure that was presented to none of my other classmates. Teacher’s pet? OH HELL YEA. And boy, did I milk it. A year later, in 4th grade, I used to get bored during grammar lessons and would, instead, occupy myself by writing poetry and doodling. After failing to answer an on-the-spot question, my treasured notebook was shortly confiscated. Mrs. Dough, I never forgave you for that.
Even in 8th grade, my English teacher thought I’d accomplish some outstanding feats in my life. Revisiting an old year book, she wrote (not exactly verbatim): “You’re talented in all that you do! Keep it up and you’ll go to Harvard!” Harvard. HAH! Not even close!!
In High School, I seemed to do pretty well considering how my dance career took over my life. My daily schedule went as such: 7am – 3pm, school. 4pm – 9pm dance. The remaining few hours of the day were dedicated to school work, studying, and Vienna Sausage. Shit. Aside from Ramen noodles, Vienna sausage made the most of my adolescent diet…
And that’s where the cerebral demise began: with Vienna sausage. From what I remember in my physio-psychology class, the normal person experiences two spikes in cerebral-synapse growth. The first is during your first 5 years, and the second during your adolescence. As I pull up the nutritional facts of my delicious childhood friend, I am confronted with the following truth: My second cerebral growth was being stunted!!!
|Total Fat 16.87g||26.0%|
|Saturated Fat 6.20g||31.0%|
|Total carbs 2.26g||0.8%|
|Fiber, total dietary 0g||0%|
|Vitamin A 0IU||0%|
|Vitamin C 0mg||0%|
Good Lord! Look at those PDV’s! With one serving, I was ingesting 16g Total Fat, 6.2g Saturated Fat, 75mg Chloesterol, 842mg Sodium, 70g of rat droppings, 10mm of insect legs, and 50og of 100% pure shit. My brain was being starved!!! Vienna sausage hacked away at my neurological webbings like a 5 year old kid hacks away at a spider’s enterprise when he accidentally runs into it at night.
Since then, it’s seemed to be nothing but a endless downward spiral. College probably fucked me up the most. Stupid 103 Hemingway parties, M.I.T. frat houses, keg stands, and inane amounts of cannabis + (2 CH3CH2OH + 2 CO2). Shit, my medulla oblogata was doomed.
My only other takeaway from my physio-psych class was this: After your mid-twenties, your brain begins its slow but inevitable process of deterioiation. FUCK MAN, I’M ALMOST IN MY MID-TWENTIES!!! Has my brain been permanently snafued? Is it too late for me to mend the man-made cavities, etched out by J. Daniels and Maui Waui??
FUCK MAN. I’ve got one more year left under my belt until I’m officially in my mid-twenties.