Ever been beat up by your drug dealer?

It's been a month since I consciously decided to stop smoking. It was going really well until last Wednesday. Ryan was taking his mom and his aunt out for dinner, and I was left to my own devices.

I ordered thai food and did some yoga, but couldn't concentrate so I stopped at my 7th Sun Salutation B. My mind was on the pot. How many evenings have I spent eating delicious curry pad thai and watching some inane television show? That was my Thing - ask anyone who had ever visited me in my old apartment on Dufferin. Oh the good old days...

Luckily, Leann called and saved me from my own weak pathetic self. I tried to justify the temptation - I can't even enjoy a glass of wine, I'm entitled to this blah blah blah. She accused me of "wanting to have a crutch" and she was right. 100%. Just because everyone else has crutches, does that make them right? Does that mean I can too - knowing full well what a useless pile of turd I turn into when I overindulge?

So I didn't. The tiny rolled roach is still sitting on my kitchen table. It comforts me to know that it's there. It's a reminder that I'm choosing to not smoke it - that it's not a situation thing (i.e. "If only I could buy some...")

Sometimes It's Worth It

But then two days later, I did choose to indulge. It was at Leann's birthday and someone had rolled her a beautiful, perfect, impossibly gorgeous blunt of a fresh blueberry strain. It shined like a beacon before me and I chose to treat myself. If I was going to cheat, I was going to do it in style. I smoked it like Clinton smoked his Monica laced cigar.

Wherein I Get My Ass Kicked

I was pretty proud of myself because I didn't smoke the next night when the recovering party people were trying to relieve their aches and pains. Perhaps I was feeling overly confident in my ability to resist temptation so my subconscious decided to drive the point home last night in a very vivid violent dream against drugs.

I was at my old apartment, grey and brown and hazy, and I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of my new dealer. This guy had high-end stuff, and I was very excited. He came over and sold me an ounce. I asked him how much it cost and he gave me a dirty look.

"Haven't you looked at the price sheet?"

1 ounce = $296.49

I don't have that kind of cash, but the dealer was giving off a totally bad vibe. I agreed to go to the bank machine and when we get there, he pounces on me and starts beating the crap out of my face. Blood and teeth are flying and I'm afraid of what my family and colleagues will think when they see me like this.

It doesn't take a psychoanalyst to interpret this dream. I just thought it was pretty fucking hilarious. It's nice to know that I've got my own back.