Getting High

I just finished "Go Ask Alice", a book which is actually the true (and unedited, from what I gather) diary of a girl in the 1960s who accidentally gets high at a party. She's only 15, and from there on her diary is a swirl of running away from home to be high for weeks, returning to stay clean, getting slipped drugs again, giving in, etc. By the end of the diary, she's 16, people at school have stopped pressuring her to be a dealer again, she has a new boyfriend who's never used in his life, and she's determined the drug phase of her life is over. But the final portion of the book, titled "Epilogue" and written by someone else, says that three weeks after the last entry (in which she decided she was too grown up to need a diary any more) she was found dead of drug overdose in her bedroom. No one knows if it was accidental or not, or even how she got the drugs.

I was thinking about this book as I drooled over pictures of a Miata I might (might!!) go look at this weekend. I was thinking about drugs because I think Miatas make me high. Driving one was fabulous, and every time I imagine myself the owner of one of these itty-bitty, nada practicality, adorable Mazdas I get all giddy inside. In case anyone's curious, this one is a black 1993 with a tan interior and recently lowered suspension. It currently resides in Louisville.

One more thing...when I die, please don't publish my diary. Please! Even if it ends up being a perfect chronicle of a 2000s girl's descent into addiction to a very powerful drug, the CAR.

the clock is ticking...

Today I saw a bike that had worse-sounding brakes than mine! My trusty steed and I were coasting to a stop on Grant Street and someone coming from a side street was slowing down to turn. It sounded like this:

My bike: squeeeeeeeeek (in a deep, throaty, kind of German accent)

His bike: squEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAKKKK! (in a fingernails on chalkboard sort of way)

Ha. I win. But who knows for how long...