I’ve started seeing a new shrink, who after a single session switched my crazy pills (or antidepressants; I’ve heard it both ways) to something he hopes will make me slightly less knifing-centric. I need to be on the wagon for the next few weeks while I transition onto the new meds—which is not exactly conducive to someone who just started critiquing wine. But I’m a good girl(ish) and can suffer a dry spell in the interest of not rearranging the inner stuffs of the obnoxious. (I was thinking alphabetical, from appendix to zygomaticus.)
Tangent. Last post, I happily announced that my little man-child graduated high school. To celebrate, momma took he and his underage girlfriend to X-Fest. For my international following, X-Fest is a concert event not unlike a mini Woodstock. Hence, lots of morons lounging on the grass, lots of morons smoking grass (billowing would be an understated descriptor) and lots of morons setting fire to the freaking grass to make impromptu bonfires in an arid part of the state known to have severe problems with wildfires. And wait until I tell you about the morons.
What do the last two paragraphs have to do with each other? Well, it occurs to me I’ve never actually attended a venue like this sober. Now that I’ve had to go to one with some semblance of clarity—allowing me to see the culture from the outside in? Holy jumping Jesus sticks! Is that what I’ve been like this whole time? How did I not end up in prison? I belong there. My only hope is that I’ll acclimate to my new drugs soon, so I can can go back to killing such thoughts with yummy alcohol. I’m sorry, were you expecting an epiphany? Pfft.
Here’s some perfect stoner food, given to me by a friend’s (clean, I’m sure) nephew. His name is Colton, but I’m gonna claim authorship:
Kim’s Chocolate Balls
- 1 package Oreos (or Trader Joe’s Joe Joe’s)
- 1 brick cream cheese
- chocolate/white chocolate chips
Place softened cream cheese and cookies in food processor, blend until a mud-like paste. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. Roll into balls. Drizzle with melted topping of your choosing.
They say if it’s too loud, you’re too old. I might be encroaching on that age, but I’m still no stranger to fun. In fact, when Saint Peter reads into my thirties, he’ll have me park in that waiting zone outside McDonald’s for when your order’s too big—lest a single soul be denied their eternal Big Mac. (I’m hungry, can you tell?) It’s just amazing how the moment I turned forty was also the moment my hips started hurting when I dance (be it moderate or hoochie-esque). I’m also coming around to the idea that kids sure are dressing dumb these days. Get off my lawn before you set it on fire! Whipper. Snappers.
TWTG says, “It didn’t say ‘no parking’ it was just striped funny.”