Mom

Spoke with Mom on the phone. Nothing much good came out of the conversation. Asked her why she gave Tiara some Vicodin to give to me. She pretty much avoided the question. After a less than sincere apology she changed the subject to Dad’s standing in the latest polls.

He’s up five points. Whoopie.

Before we hung up, Mom asked how much longer I’d be staying. I told her I didn’t know.

“Well, take as long as you like, dear” she said.

I told her rehab wasn’t like eating cookies or being on vacation or whatever, but by then she was already gone.

Story of my life.

To keep from getting depressed, I danced around my room, listening to the soundtrack to Fame on my iPod. I knew any moment Pat O’Brien would barge in and ask what I was listening to and then tell me that whoever it was, he banged them, but I didn’t care. I was living forever. I was learning how to fly.