Well Shit

Note:
This post is not responsible for either grammar or spelling issues. My hands and brain are sucking today.

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I was talking to a certain scrapper person yesterday and she mentioned reading my blog and the funny!! and laughing!!! and WOW!! and then I realized that lately my blog sucks. I mean, I knew that my blog was sucking and depressing (reflecting the blog owner maybe?) but I really thought about it and decided that if I avoid my blog because it sucks then maybe I should either write something or walk away. And we all know that I can't walk away because it's Sam's Stories dammit and there is no life without the Stories or the Sam.

I am frequently accused of turning everyday shit into a Sam's Story in real life and while people laugh and laugh (and cry and beg for me to stop being so great and wonderful) they yell "Just get to the fucking point!" (occasionally or VERY OFTEN) What I am trying to get across is that Sam's Stories are just me. I tell stories, hands waving and hips thrusting without any rhythm just to make my story entertaining. I speak to entertain, that is my goal 90% of the time when I open my mouth. The problem is that when I mix my speaking with painkillers. The equation goes something like this:

painkillers + Sam = slightly hyper with a fervent NEED to talk + little or no filters

Let's talk about Vicodin and Tramadol, my current fighters of pain and suffering. There are two distinct groups of people that take Vicodin, and about Tramadol I know only of my own, limited experience so we'll ignore it for now. The people that take Vicodin are either trying to stop pain or get high. High as in hazy and fuzzy and happy and warm and the world is good, good, good. Wheeee! Vicodin! (That's why, Essie! You're SUPPOSED to feel that way, it's called DOING DRUGS)

Back to me and my experience with Vicodin, which bears no resemblance to the previous paragraph. I talk and talk and talk and I cannot fucking shut up. If I am alone I will talk to animals or myself. The worst part is that I'm high (speedy high, not stoned high) and I want to talk and do things and I seem to have lost internal filtering mechanisms.

For those of you that are scratching your noggins right now, a filtering mechanism would stop one from saying each of the following things in a large group of scrapbookers that are strangers in tight quarters and very many are older women:

• This crazy menopausal woman was there!
• Don't you remember the CRAZY MENOPAUSAL WOMAN?
• When my husband plays certain video games in bed it reminds me of him beating off and I slightly lose my sex drive.
• Oh, your husband, too?
• We call my cats' assholes pink star fruit.
• Anything about anal sex. I'm sure the two or three or twelve of us discussing it were okay, but the rest of the room could have lived without it.

There was much, much more and supposedly I greatly amused my VERY new scrappin' friends but the rest of the room? They would have appreciated a little better filtering on my part. Am I long-winded yet? No? Good. So I was hoping the new pain warrior, Tramadol would be a better friend. A calm, filtered friend. Oh no. Not a bit. So now I have to go back to the doctor and ask for a painkiller that doesn't make me tell inappropriate stories out loud in front of strangers while wanting to clean and work and DO!! all sorts of things. I want to be calm and quiet and pain free. Is that too much to ask?