Miss Makeover: Narcotics Anonymous. Enough to Drive You to Drink.

By on November 21, 2010

Maybe I should have gone to a sex addiction meeting. I might have pulled. As it is I’m stuck with monologue addicts. Who don’t know where to stop. “And as long as I listen to my higher power I won’t repeat those behaviours.” Behaviours? What’s wrong with behaviour? Which used to be good enough. Before the invention of psycho-babble. And what’s this hooded pizza-faced teenage turd doing in a City of London meeting anyway? Maybe he’s doing the recommended sixty meetings in sixty days, for which you have to travel. (I’m fifty eight short)  Maybe he’s local.  You’re never that far from a Council Estate in London, even in the centre. (Nothing against social housing, just hooded teenagers on crack).  I’m dressed down, by my standards. No cleavage, no red high heel shoes. But it still falls short of the ‘dress decently’ suggestion on my Just For Today card. Actually, it feels more like a command than a suggestion and these brainwashed robots are starting to annoy me. Now he’s telling us about ‘acting out’. I hear that a lot at meetings plus ‘behaviours’, that plural I dislike. Shrinks, social workers and probation officers use these terms. Three good reasons to stick to jargon-free English. And not American. Sorry. I’ll be writing to the Daily Mail next. I have a ball gag which would fit nicely into that babbling mouth. And some nettles to rub into his balls. And the end of his horrible little nob. Nothing like a bit of urtication to give him something real to complain about. Perhaps some figging too. Never mind shaving a little shoot of ginger, I’m sure he could take a couple of bunches. Ginger up his fundament a treat. He’s probably the sort of clown who keeps his stash and a mobile phone up there. Where the Police or Prison Officers would never think of looking. The “Chatham pocket’ they call it, down in chavvy Chatham where Dickensian poverty is matched by stupendously idiotic villains.
The Just For Today card tells me not to criticize. But it needn’t stop me telling you guys. (“That’s American, you silly cow. ‘You guys’”. You’re right. So I won’t argue. Or get angry or bitchy. Despite you interrupting my flow. Any more of that and I’ll get on to my imminent period.  Ah, my male heckler looks sick all of a sudden…)
Hoodie Pizza-face gets a signal from the chair to cease and desist, but he ignores the four minute rule. A little more ego toss and then he’s shot. They say women talk too much. Maybe we do like to talk – having a laugh, sharing our troubles. But I have yet to see a women go over time doing a share at a meeting. Men often do. I rest my case.

Then a respectable older woman talks a little about being excluded from some clique at school. This comes up a lot, which excludes me, oddly enough. I seemed to find my clique of kinky Goth outsiders easily enough. But then we were all happy to be excluded. Who cares what some spoiled bitches thought? Decades ago?

There’s a coffee and cake orgy afterwards at which an evangelical Christian asks me, seriously, if I am a ‘person of faith’.  So even the Christians talk American now.  “No”, I tell him. “I interpret God as Goodness. The greater good. For the group. That’s my morality.” Will that do? He couldn’t care less. He then talks for five minutes non-stop on the last few years and how Jesus has saved him. Because I don’t like hurting people I don’t say anything. Just my luck to meet the Ancient Mariner.
So. I can’t get annoyed. According to NA. I’m not supposed to watch junk tv or read anything pleasurable. I’m not supposed to do anything much except repeat a lot of misery mantras and pray.  I leave, glad to have only been hugged once. I somehow get past the bars full of smiley happy people on my way home. I don’t ring my dealer who lives two minutes away. I don’t ring Geezer. Because a part time coke dealer falls somewhat short of whatever ideal a recovering addict would have for a partner.
The coffee keeps me awake till dawn. I do not make a gratitude list. As recommended for recovering addicts. Although my vibrator eventually makes me grateful. It’s harder to come since I upped my anti-depressants. But you can always turn a vibrator up. So I do. Praise the Lord! May the Goddes be blessed! Oooooh… .

1 Comment

mark ramsden

December 15, 2010 @ 01:43

Glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, one valium, one Night Nurse pill: Happiness.
NA or AA meetings: Misery.

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