Yes, I’m an addict of sorts…a junkie…a person with a compulsive habit or obsessive dependency on something. In my case it’s steroids, and no, I’m not a weight lifter or sumo wrestler.
I’ve been taking them to keep my hearing stabilized, and they work like a charm, or snake coiling from a basket, depending how you look at it.
A dominant drug taming everything in its path. Trouble is, steroids are addictive, and very potent because the minute you stop taking them, it feels as if they’ve hurled you off a cliff.
Did I mention they’re packed with speed, which is why you’re painting your kitchen at 2 a.m. like Jackson Pollock on acid.
A doctor I know said, medicine is your friend Susannah. Oh yeah, well with friends like Prednisone pal, who needs enemies?
I’m sitting here in my basset hound pajamas one step from occupational therapy. A form of rehabilitation for those recuperating from physical or mental illness that encourages healing through the performance of activities required in daily life.
Ya know, like making a wallet without your belt.
Yes I jest, because there’s no other way to combat the severe withdrawal, except with humor I gratefully have in spades, along with diamonds and hearts.
Toss in a joker and we’re off to the races.
The big question is…to brave it out, stay off of them…show steroid just who’s boss, taking the chance of my hearing going south. It’s already lolling in Louisiana so if it ends up in Texas, I’m pretty well fucked.
Yes, even girls from Connecticut have need of the F word even if we try not to use it.
It’s just so fucking universal.
Oh, there I go again.