Problems with vicodin

Oh there are so many, not the least of which is this apparent inability to talk about anything else. I do have other interests, I swear. Just that this novel addiction has moved into my day-to-day like my lower bowel cozied up in my scrotum-both useless roommates camped out on the couch, taking up space and contributing nothing*.

More than anything else, though, is this odd living in the now that comes with being constantly stoned...not that that's that new (I love that I just wrote "that" thrice, and still made sense. That's post-grad writing there, yes it is). Every moment, and every day is new, with less of the previous weighing it down and little of the future looming on the horizon...I don't think of the latter, and can't freaking remember the former, so I'm just doing my two-step here in the moment. This isn't necessarily unpleasant, but is, I think, likely to have some larger consequences down the road. Even now, I think I've had at least three or four conversations that I can't remember, other than to know they were very odd for the other person. Well, what are you gonna do?

But day-to-day, still, day-to-day is not so good. I'm kind of moody to begin with, and when those moods have no relationship to each other through the fog of my fugue, well, lets just say I'm all over the fucking place. I'm losing perspective, which is one of the few things I have going for me at this point.

*This is a purely abstract reference, and should in no way be construed as referring to anyone living or dead...or undead.