Tweaking Seekers

When I was wealthy for three months, I had a blog I called "Spin Whistle". It can be found degrading in the Wayback Machine. All the quote marks and apostrophes are now replaced by '?' marks.

Man, I was bombed. But well dressed.

"standin' on the gallows with my head in the noose,
any minute now expecting all hell to break loose"
---dylan, natch...

The blog makes cross-eyed sense only. It's a difficult read. Even I gave up, and I'm my biggest fan ever.
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This is a much more interesting world I inhabit, "Recovery". For instance we're frequently in layman discussions about who to put away. And sometimes we actually follow through and off they go to the second or third floor at the University Booby Hatch.

Will it be days, weeks? Holy cow, it's been a month. No, longer! Leaping Lizards, Holy General Schitaki, they've got lodged in the system's throat, or they've disappeared with their paper work, oblivious and anonymous on psychiatric drugs. Somebody better go look into this! (You want to ?) (Nah. You?) (Oh, I guess not.)

But geez, by now you'd think they'd have turned up at Daybreak or New Horizons or Encore or The Discovery Channel.

Sitting over at the Eloise House the other day, the phone rang and our girlfriend Aaron wanted some chew-bacca. That wasn't the surprise, though, since we're in the Ozarks. The surprise was we'd forgotten all about her and it'd been three months. I remember at the time thinking she only needed 72 hours.

She's at the Last Word now.

And won't call me! I wonder why. Maybe she is of two minds about calling me. (New favorite expression of mine. Lately I've been telling people I'm of "two minds". A lot. I've said it to waitresses and convenience store clerks. "Well, to be honest, I'm of two minds... regular or premium, hmm...") Anwya, it wasn't me who dropped the dime on her.

Really, what the devil, Aaron? Signed, your friend John.

Then, as related below, I had the Phooka herself committed last January. Or, I provided an assist. Down the rabbit hole, wrong turn at Albequerqe, something, she's been gone so long I'm afraid they've discovered she's an interesting case. For the books. I'm glad I didn't say, "I'll be waiting."

(To the contrary, paraphrasing Marx here, "I never want to see you again after the way I behaved last night.")
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Addicts bear watching. Those of us in the area "Sober Houses" always have one extra room. You reach a limit, and someone in your house is going to go down the chute, maybe a head long dive, and it's almost always the newcomer. It's like Ten Little Indians and one of us is being stalked.

There's the one bed which seems to be only for those passing through.

You try to be fair. You want to disbelieve your own eyes sometimes.

Relapse time is Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. Someone gets some bad news, someone gets some good news. They're off!
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My speech to the newcomer is simple: life gets curiouser and curiouser when you're sober. And remember, you're with the same cranks, freaks, eccentrics, heros, villians here in Recovery as at the bar. Same people! Only twenty times more interesting.

Now I've put this off long enough. Someone is out of control, and I'll put it before my peers. They say our fate is "jails, institutions or death". They forgot to add, "The Street". Of those four, "Institutions" are obviously preferable.