In light of another prescription pill corpse awaiting a look-see from a bored county coroner who can set his watch to less famous folks taking the same time-release mortal departure week in and week out.
We here at ReallySmallTalk know you like your pills, and thought it was time to issue a timely weekend pill advisory.
To our friends on both the synthetic opiates or other downers plus anti-depressants: keep it honest and stick to the label -- no extra helpings, no matter how hungry for more you may be, folks! I repeat: NO DOUBLE DIPPING! I know, I know, "But I need more than usual because of [Insert whatever shit you're going through or feeling.]" Okay, yawning...you were saying? You're going through some shit like everyone else on the planet? Mmm hmm.
To our friends and associates mixing any of the prescribed designer speed looking for relief from anxiety: first of all, you look smashing and thin! And around here we gotta ride some goddamned excercise bike thing to stay in shape, but for the love of Christ, if only for this weekend, until the most recent scrip corpse is honored, stay away from the booze (yeah, even wine) with your anxiety meds.
To our friends rocking Vikes plus Tranqs plus Seratonin Re-uptake Inhibitors: We know it's a delicous high because, trust me, three of us here rocked that shit when Urban Fetch was still in business and would bring you movies and ice cream and blank journals and other office supplies to write horrible fiction with, but, again -- no making up your own dosages, folks. Still no guarantee you're not gonna be found in bed with white skin and thin blue lips, but at least you'll improve your odds by doing what the label says to.
Yeah, yeah, we know you're different and it won't happen to you. And yeah, we know for the last eight years ReallySmallTalk headquarters here has been so goddamn sober that we're on the verge of chartering a run-down secondhand school bus, filling it with our own youth group, and pointing it toward The Catskills...but, believe me, we've got the pills experience to offer you a few pointers heading into a weekend. And it's been eight years since we've had to rush anyone to an Emergency Room! Total fucking bonus!
Oh, Anna Nicole Smith and the choices she made, right? Yeah, the gigs she took. Yeah, chasing money to a grave like some Greek myth they haven't written yet. Yeah, the so-called management she surrounded hereself with...but thoughts from here go out to loved ones left behind -- her son went out on methadone and anti-depressants, too. The whole thing looked like a saddening, long, hard, stoned, blurry, painful run of things for both of them.
Then again, getting high on the legal stuff is so damn fun and easy to justify.
I dunno. It's a toss up. Welcome to Middle America...the new Amsterdam!
Rock On-
D.K.
