The Twilight series is not everyone’s cup of distortion but I find the absolute break from reality a relief. As the movie theater clears itself of denizens of make believe. As the seats empty and the matinee masturbator’s club descends on the parking lot. I, Ambien Grace, am left alone with my unusual perception of the facts.
I had planned on joining AmeriCorps; make something right about this wrong world. However, the uniforms are ugly, I’d have to pass periodic drug tests and I am unstable with and without medication. So, check that idea off the self-improvement list.
I had hoped to do something in the sexual deviation part of the entertainment industry. I even planned out the scenes on my computer along with some not so flattering photos of myself naked.
The scene would open dirty, dusty and downright derelict. The spoken word between the two main characters would come from my own trunk of torrid thoughts:
So I get you a little excited with my hands on the inside of your thighs with a little bit of pressure. You’re gripping onto the railing as I put my hands up your shirt feeling your breast, squeezing them just a little bit.
I force you to get up and I pull your pants down. I get you to straddle me again only this time I feel how wet you are. I play with your clit for a bit, getting you more and more excited. I stop for a while to get you to beg for more. I start kissing down your neck to your chest. After a while I surprise you and put my fingers deep in you. . You start grinding into my fingers until you get to a breaking point and you slump over my shoulder!
You; my leading lady, tell me, Ambien, stop!
I in turn, don’t! More anger and more pride arise from my barren soul until, visions of my mother float through my head!
Happens every time!
Like Viagra, my pills get me pumped. Without them I am not whole.
So, the unfortunate scene only worsens until I have achieved my pill erection. The scene of sex is now a scene of dismay between the two main characters:
“I’m a recovering lesbian alcoholic…”
Then I pause for thought.
“Sometimes I just want to give up and drink again. But I know in the back of my mind I don’t want to end up like my birth father” I cry to the leading lady of Ambien dreams.
Yet, another, dramatic awkward moment for poetry sake and I take a breath and whine:
“Let me see how many pills I have.
Fuck I only have 4!
I don’t want to put it off though…the fucking! But, I took a ton last night
And I don’t know when my order comes in.
It’s just not a good time because I’m not even close to my reg dose of anxiety/depression pills…it’s why I’ve been dizzy, shaking, and moody for the past week.
i wish i had more of my anxiety pills.”
Quote, unquote. My movie career ends as quickly as it starts. No, ‘Ambien Grace Does New Hampshire Hard.’
As I get up to leave the movie theater of present and ‘real’ time, again, a tear floats from the corner of my eye and graces my cheek. The parking lot is vacant other than for my Honda. What I am? Am I a pill with lips? Am I my mother’s weakest link? A kink in the chain of depression amongst drunken college graduates!