Vicodin
I have a dent in my head, I do, I do! It is more like a dimple in my noggin as opposed to a complete cranial cave-in, but I am proud of this war wound from Battledome: Motorway. I’m not so proud of how it happened – a romantic Valentine’s date of college ice hockey with a young man who looked like a rat ended when, in an attempt to show off and win my undying love (read: some undershirt action and a blow job), he triggered a 30 car pile-up just outside Detroit by smashing my face into the front of a lorry. Speed doesn’t kill, kids, teenage boys trying to get laid kill.

I spent three days in the hospital so the doctors could verify that my brain wouldn’t pop, then was sent away with a torso hugging (it had a belt!) plastic and metal neck brace and a prescription to Vicodin.

The next few months are a haze. I remember attending classes, strapping myself into my neck brace and – most importantly – I started a relationship with a young man named Aaron. Aaron sat by my side as I popped my Vicodin and drifted off to sleep. He held my hand throughout the night and mopped my tired Vicodin-ed brow. He bought me flowers, he massaged my back, he read to me. He got me more Vicodin.

By this time, I was addicted in earnest. What was meant to be a 2-a-day medicinal habit turned into a 20-a-day requirement. I had convinced myself that as long as I needed the neck brace, I needed my Vicodin. The need, however, turned into an all-encompassing quest. Vicodin was my life.

Eventually my mother staged an intervention. It was just like in the films – me in bed thrashing about in the agony of withdrawal, wailing and begging for just a single pill. What I remember most was the abject suicidal depression which coursed through me as the Vicodin left my system. I couldn’t bear to live unless it was through a haze. Vicodin used to have me in its grip, without it I wanted to die.

Eventually my body and mind righted themselves, and I was shipped back to University with instructions to my friends to absolutely verify that I wasn’t titted up on pills. I still had the neck brace, but I had a clear mind.

Aaron greeted me with open arms, glad to see me return to the land of the living. The only problem was that I had spent all of our relationship completely high, and I hardly remembered any of it. Find out, he was the most bloody annoying person I had ever met, a clingy creature with rotten socks. He knew nothing of me but my Vicodin naps, I could hardly pick him out of a lineup. And he tanged of farts. I dumped him by the end of my first day back.

Drug addictions make you have sex with people who smell of poots. Let this cautionary tale be a lesson to you all.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Mon 22 Dec 2008, 10:35, Reply)