I was talking with my shrink today about an attack of the paranoid heebee jeebees that hit me Tuesday afternoon.
It started when my dad contacted me online and told me that Rome Girl and I should do everything in our power to not mention France to my stepmother. It seems that not only does she not want to come on the French vacation next month, she doesn't want my dad to either.
He's worried that if Rome Girl or I show any enthusiasm about it it will push her even further away from either of them coming. This, after he spent two months telling me to encourage her to come.
So, I called up Rome Girl and told her not to mention France to my stepmom. Rome Girl got annoyed and told me she really hopes neither of them come because she feels like it will become a nightmare of my stepmom bitching about everything while my dad and I use gin, vodka and denial to ignore the circling storm.
I pointed out that it could be worse - she only has to deal with them for three or four days every couple of years.
Anyway, about five minutes after I got off the phone the paranoia creeped in. I thought I saw racoons on the balcony (yet was sane enough to know I couldn't be seeing what I was seeing), I started worrying about Rome Girl getting mugged. The cat made a quick movement and I almost jumped out of my seat. I kept checking my bank account every five minutes, worried that somone had committed identity theft on us.
Finally, I realized that I was in a bad spiral so I got out of the apartment. I ran into Blond Lesbian and Hippy IT Boy and the Iceman and some other people and just vented my frustrations.
And, then I felt better.
What annoyed me was that I still feel powerless over these intrusive thoughts. My shrink and I then spent a while talking about it. She thinks that deep down inside I'm terrified that my parents' visit will endanger my relationship with Rome Girl.
I think I'm simply still crazy after all these years.
Most of it sounds predictable. Apparently Scott now thinks the war was a bad idea and that Bush has the intellectual curiosity of a wounded gnat.
But, what's interesting is the cocaine stuff:
The book recounts an evening in a hotel suite "somewhere in the Midwest." Bush was on the phone with a supporter and motioned for McClellan to have a seat.
"'The media won't let go of these ridiculous cocaine rumors,' I heard Bush say. 'You know, the truth is I honestly don't remember whether I tried it or not. We had some pretty wild parties back in the day, and I just don't remember.'"
"I remember thinking to myself, How can that be?" McClellan wrote. "How can someone simply not remember whether or not they used an illegal substance like cocaine? It didn't make a lot of sense."
Bush, according to McClellan, "isn't the kind of person to flat-out lie."
"So I think he meant what he said in that conversation about cocaine. It's the first time when I felt I was witnessing Bush convincing himself to believe something that probably was not true, and that, deep down, he knew was not true," McClellan wrote. "And his reason for doing so is fairly obvious — political convenience."
Look. I've done cocaine. And let me tell you, there is no way in hell you can "forget" doing cocaine. It just doesn't happen. You can forget the chick/dude you went down on while drunk. You can forget how many beers you had at a party. You can forget your car keys.
But, you don't fucking forget sticking something up your nose that makes you suddenly feel sober, talk all the time and feel wide awake. You certainly don't forget the fact that 45 minutes after you do it you really, really, really want to do some more.