Filed under: Corona 2020 | Tags: alcoholism, China, Corona virus, Covid-19, depression, Fear, France, illness, Italy, mental health, self isolation, USA
A friend wrote this to me when I responded, simply, to her text about what I was doing in my self isolation, « Drinking in the sun : »
« I take the opinion that if washing your hands with a hydro-alcoholic solution keeps germs away, then filling your body with alcohol will do the same…’Tis a noble sacrifice you are doing for the greater good of la rĂ©publique! »
Indeed. Vive la RĂ©publique! Yes, I’m a regular a dame de la rĂ©sistance when one considers my coping strategies…
(Though I did write a note to both Emmanuel Macron and Ădouard Philippe about what I saw today going in to vote and at the voting station, so that’s something (she tells herself)…).
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, angst, city, depression, health, life, loneliness, marriage, mental health, mid life crisis, rural, sadness, teenager
âThere is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.â
Maya Angelou
A city girl who lives in a village.
A muted erudite.
A smoker who canât smoke.
A drinker who canât drink.
A carnal creature sans sex.
Vivacity rendered torpid.
A bird in a cage of its own making.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: alcohol, anxiety, Children, depression, global affairs, human dynamics, humanity, intellect, liver, Mean Girls, mediocrity, melancholy, mental health, society, stress, Tennessee Williams
Depression is melancholy minus its charms – the animation, the fits. Susan Sontag
My mind has been playing tricks on me all day. I almost convinced myself that my bad liver was a result of my candy intake. Seriously. For a moment, it seemed real. So real, that it almost justified my drinking at 9am. The rest of the day, Iâve been thinking that Iâll try to make it through fifteen more years. Thatâs the goal. Ten to see my son off to university, then five more years to have fun, do what I want, potentially decimate my body. Then, like a cat when its ready to die, Iâll quietly go off somewhere by myself. These morbid thoughts give me comfort. I think, âI can make it through today…â Then, âI can make it through the next year…â Then, âI can make it for ten more…I think…â âThatâs all, thatâs all…â But that âallâ is everything.
Itâs horrible to feel this way. Itâs heavy and dark and bitter and mean and uncomfortable. I want to escape me. Barring that, I want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and just pass time. The day, the year, the ten years, the fifteen. However, there are always people around me. My husband would interrupt this. Not because he would be concerned, but because it would annoy him that I was in bed âlolling aboutâ while he was taking care of our child, our house, and âbusiness.â Then, of course, thereâs my son. My precocious, sweet, talkative boy who hums and sings to himself as he skips up the stairs, heads out the door, or plays by himself. He zones in on me like Iâm a beacon whenever heâs home and demands I engage with him. Not in a pushy, aggressive manner, but because he likes me and wants to show me things, talk to me about what he has seen or done, and to hear what I have to say about it. Heâs still cuddly, even as I can see the man that he will become, and heâs way too big for me to lift up. I try to engage with him. To pay attention to what heâs saying. I try to put a smile on my face. I try to pretend not to be me for him.
Itâs entirely for him that Iâm not drinking and inhaling to my heartâs desire. Or staying in bed all day. Or running away to somewhere else more suited to my real self. Somewhere dirty, large, and anonymous. Heâs the reason I stay. Heâs the reason I try at all. Heâs the reason I will make myself go to the grocery store to get food, even as I absolutely dread the inevitable prospect of running into someone I know. Heâs also the reason that we have any semblance of a social life. As an only child, or a âuniqueâ as the French say, he wants playmates. As a naturally curious and social boy, he wants company and activity around him. As heâs still very young, he canât arrange them or go by himself, and his father is unconcerned with having a social life, happy, instead, to be a homebody. So, I must arrange âplay datesâ and social plans. Then, I must stay for a âhello,â and a âhow are you?â and sometimes a cup or glass of something to be friendly. However, I find these interactions very hard. I feel as though I am perpetually masquerading as a ânormalâ person, and consequently, am such a fraud. I donât know how to have small talk when Iâm sober, and I know people donât want me to launch into âseriousâ talk, which is a âdowner.â Having to interact with adults and children alike is painful and anxiety provoking for me. And now thereâs no reprieve from the stress of it all.
Moreover, âthe slings and arrowsâ of children and their parentsâ politics are very hard for me to observe, digest, and remain calm about. âCookie cutterâ type kids and their parents are popular. Theyâre confident about asserting themselves. The kids spot the âAchilles heelâ of any child and exploit it cruelly. The other kids gravitate to these types. Prompting me to wonder if there isnât some truth to the idea that people, in general, do like dictators â someone to tell them what to do and how to be. Tennessee Williams notes in âNight of the Iguanaâ that humans are the only creatures that wonât do anything to get out of a trap, such as bite off a foot or an arm. The kids âfisty cuffsâ are generally all forgotten relatively quickly, but itâs terrible to watch when you consider that these human propensities begin early. Ugh, and the little clusters of cliques, with those who are the âhenchmenâ to the popular kids often being the meanest. Girls seem to be the worst. Or the best, depending on how you look at it. I think of the film âMean Girlsâ frequently. Even among the hierarchies of adults. I hate observing these dynamics. It âwinds me up.â It makes me feel like Iâm in grade school or high school all over again. I hated those years. I felt like a captive.
I keep looking for justice and signs of human thoughtfulness: to notice the person who picks up after himself when leaving the cinema. Or notice the car that uses only one parking space. Or notice the person who lets someone in front of them in the line at the grocery âcause they only have three items and the other person a trolley full of goods. Or see âthe chancerâ get fired summarily. But itâs so hard to do when I feel so fucking bad. And, it often makes things worse âcause I donât see these things everyday and then Iâm angry. Then, like the masochist I am, I sling abuse at myself for being âso negative.â I tell myself that itâs MY fault that I see the âbadâ things about people in the world! Iâm sending out that âenergyâ and itâs causing a reverb by bringing negativity to me!â âIf I could only change my perspective then it would all be fine. All would be different.â âItâs how I see things thatâs the problem.â âItâs me. I suck. Iâm horrible, beastly, angry, critical, and judgmental.â âI should relax and not think âtooâ much.â Problem is, the only way I donât think too much is to ingest a mind-altering substance. If Iâm to make it another fifteen years, I canât. Itâs already âdiceyâ that Iâll make it that far with what Iâve already done to myself.
And thatâs when I want to spend my day in bed. Itâs then that I see little point in venturing out into the world. Itâs then that I return to the idea that Iâve had a good run and Iâm eager to be done with it. Iâm tired of watching imposters get ahead. Iâm tired of bullies dominating society â both on a micro and macro level. Of mediocrity reigning. Of the rise of pride in ignorance and the consequent disdain of intellect. Of no one really giving a shit about anything. Iâm tired of it all. Iâm tired of me.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, alcohol, British, comedy, depression, drama, Eddie Marsan, human behavior, humor, humour, John Hannah, mental health, Pete Jackson, Radio 4, radio play, substance, Sue Johnston
We are taught to consume. And that’s what we do. But if we realized that there really is no reason to consume, that it’s just a mind set, that it’s just an addiction, then we wouldn’t be out there stepping on people’s hands climbing the corporate ladder of success. River Phoenix
In my opinion, the best humor has a tragic core. And, what better source for dark and amusing material than addiction? Think of Carrie Fisher with her book (then film) Postcards from the Edge. Or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Mall Rats, or Get Him to the Greek.
Addiction forms the setting for Radio 4âs fantastic six-part series Love in Recovery. Itâs such a funny and interesting radio play that after a friend sent me a link to one show, I plundered the BBC I Player back catalogue. I have both laughed and cried on occasion while listening. Itâs sharp and fresh, even as the story of immoderation in alcohol is age-old.
There are lines throughout that I have pondered after each of the 15-minute vignettes, such as, âThe hardest thing in the world is just getting throughâŠâ Or, âI waited to feel betterâŠit never came.â Or, âThere is no cure. You will never be fixed. Itâs horrible. But itâs just the way it is.â These motifs speak to me. The illogical sense of complete failure, disappointment, and a life full of more regrets than triumphs are familiar. That unhappiness, insecurity, and the sense that Iâm not what I might have been had I been someone else (if that makes any sense to a rational person) is the albatross Iâll carry forever. That drugs and alcohol blissfully stop my brain from thinking too much. The characters in Love in Recovery feel much the same way. It rings âtrueâ to me. And it should. The writer, Pete Jackson, has an interesting backstory, which provides the lynchpin for the radio playâs authenticity.
Amidst the distress and pain is much humor. There is the subtle (sic) nod to the great British âartâ of âgrumbling,â as well as slang, dialects, and cultural references that contribute to a sense of the everyday and the âeveryman.â Like Andy, for example, the needy group leader, whoâs constantly offering cookies (biscuits) to the participants with the enticement that, âTheyâre from M&S.â And, as is often the case in the best Brits, humor coexists with self-deprecation and sadness. For example, one episode finds Julie (Sue Johnston) giving an unwaveringly powerful portrait of a woman who attempted to find happiness at the bottom of a glass after her husband of 40 years left her: âHe went off with the cleaner, who ironically turned out to be a dirty bitch.â
All the actors are stellar. And, the sentiment resonates. Itâs fundamentally about how even though you feel alone, that you have the worst difficulties, that you are the worst of the worst, youâre not. That even as you have some slim understanding that this vicious voice telling you these horrible things is false, and the facts belie this âself-speech,â there are others who also find life hard. However, by sharing our stories, our difficulties, our successes, our failures and our disappointments, we can help one another take one day at a time. This works for anything, really, whatever the issue. Addiction takes many forms â alcohol, drugs, food, shopping, fornicating, exercise, and work. Or all of the above. Perhaps, as is the case for me, itâs âsimplyâ the compulsion to excess at all times, both âgoodâ and âbadâ. Both substances and through actions. Big happy. Big sad. Big success. Big flop. For me at least, itâs comforting to know that Iâm not alone in my current struggle for moderation. My own floundering objective to be âbalancedâ also seems to reflect modern societyâs own battle with itself, arguably making addiction a universal story. For me, listening to podcasts, reading books, watching films, and looking at paintings isnât just for diversion. They provide insights into the human condition. And through this, greater understanding of the world we live in, as well as ourselves. Itâs comforting to find a sense of propinquity in the world. And, one can find beauty in ugliness, just as there’s humor in the darkness.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, Alps, books, company, conversation, depression, drinking, films, France, Identity, isolation, language, loneliness, mental health, mountains, Perspective, Politics, sea, self, smoking
âMy idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.â Jane Austen
I went to âBook Clubâ this evening. Was loath to go after last night out at two bars with all the drinking, smoking and haphazard talk. Have been âtwitchyâ and irritable all day as a result. My poor family. Self-recrimination âcause Iâd had one drink more than my ration. Which was already really hard, given that we were out for hours. Self-recrimination âcause Iâd been visibly irritated and uncomfortable with the drinking and smoking around me, and thatâs not nice for those out to have a good time. Self-recrimination because I should know better than to put myself in the line of temptation. And yet. I didnât want to get out of bed this morning. Iâve been near-to-tears all day. And, well, âBook Clubâ is normally a large group of women in what is essentially a âbook swap,â* drinking a lot of wine and chattering.
So I went late. And, I went only âcause it was a bonafide friend hosting it at her house and I wanted to support her. I brought a thermos of green tea and ginger to drink and in order to keep my hands busy and to keep me drinking SOMETHING while, ostensibly, everyone else drank copious amounts of wine. But it wasnât like it usually is. For one thing, it was just our host, a dear friend of hers, another American who, while I may not agree with her politics, is an avid reader and I trust her judgment on books, as well as our hostâs twelve-year-old daughter who is also a reader, and who makes short stop-action films. They were finishing dinner when I arrived, and the daughter had made a peach cobbler. They also werenât drinking alcohol, just Perrier, and later, tea, so I didnât feel tempted or preoccupied with others drinking. Best of all? The conversations were dynamic and interesting. We talked about films, and books weâd recently read, and television programs – both in French and English – and we talked about curricula – both French and American â and we talked about travel, and we talked about exercise ‘fads’ sweeping the globe. It was a good evening. Nothing was discussed in too much depth, as I would generally like to do, but, I am, arguably, too serious.  Ultimately, it was an entertaining evening.
What a happy surprise! Thereâs a moral here Iâm sure. Perhaps itâs that I need to only hang out with people who enjoy talking about subjects I also enjoy talking about? Even if that means I am not as social as I generally like to be. There are several people in the valley whose company I find engaging. Perhaps itâs that I canât be in bars? I suppose itâs like a junkie going to a shooting gallery. Certainly, I canât be in them for too long. In my previous homes â Portland, New York, Los Angeles, London – I would have discussed the subjects we discussed this eve, such as literature, film, culture, education (and, ideally, some politics!) every time I met up with friends. However, perhaps in those cities itâs more obvious to find more people and situations in which to do so. I mean, my coterie of friends in each of the aforementioned places were filmmakers, writers, painters, musicians, artists, and conversational skill is highly valued as a source of creativity and collaboration. Moreover, these types of people are generally more expressive. Whereas where I live now, people are outdoorsmen. Mountain people. They like to climb, hike, ski, and maintain their fitness in the outdoors, preferably at altitude. Thatâs their passion and their focus. Not âwrong,â just not me. While I appreciate the mountains, I am claustrophobic in them, preferring the sea always (âHomme libre, toujours tu chĂ©riras la merâ). As a result of both the environment and the communityâs subsequent interests in general, Iâm often self-conscious, frustrated, and isolated here.
More so now that Iâm trying to substantially reduce my drinking, smoking, and drug-taking after 33 years of âcaningâ it. Additionally, the social life Iâve primarily known here is centered on boozy lunches, afternoons, and dinners…at restaurants and barsâŠwith those that flock to and spend a lot of time in them. However, for whatever reason, tonight I made the happy discovery that while the people and opportunities like this evening might be few-and-far between, there ARE, indeed, situations like tonight. Iâve experienced them here before. Evenings in which I will not spend the entire time âclock watching,’ leaning on, or ‘cluckingâ for my âcrutches,â and can, instead, enjoy what I perceive to be good company. Is this a new direction? It could be. It should be. Is it evidence of a whole new me? Perhaps not. But, perhaps, it is a peek at what the future could be like here, for the remaining years I am here, and thatâs a relief from the bleak perspective Iâve been viscerally feeling for the last couple of weeks.
*We donât read the same book and then talk about it like a traditional âBook Clubâ does. Itâs for Anglophone women to have a supply of reading material without having to buy books, which is a great idea in theory.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: alcohol, anger, Christmas, depression, happy, humanity, loneliness, melancholy, mental health, sad, society
âThat’s the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.â Elizabeth Wurtzel
I love Christmas because it seems to bring out the humane in people. The individualism of the world is dismissed for a moment as people look outside of themselves to be kind and helpful to others. For most of us, itâs a time of loved ones and good food…ceremonies and lights. For many others, however, itâs a time of year when we feel we must pretend to be happy when weâre not. How does one begin to explain depression to a person who doesnât know it first hand? How does one explain it even to oneself? As I consider how to describe it, a barrage of words come to mind: fatigue, panic, sadness, anger, confusion, suspicion, hesitation, reticence, loneliness, regret, fear, isolation, hopelessness, self-hatred, and an interminable longing to simply have it stop. Itâs bleak.
Iâve suffered depression since I was an adolescent. Now, however, I somewhat understand the ways-and-means to avoid a rough bout of it â defined by me as the inability or wish to do anything but to be left alone to sleep, and when thatâs not possible, the desire to achieve an altered state through substances in order to dull my senses and make things tolerable. To avoid these terrible times, I know to do a few things when I can feel itâs becoming hazardous, usually indicated by my having excessively destructive âself speak.â I take a walk outside each day. I write each day. I watch comedies rather than dramas, and read novels that wonât delve into any existential battle or dystopian reality. I sleep more and drink more water. I also avoid certain types of people when possible. For me, I find it too challenging to spend time with people who exacerbate my sense of failure. People who seem happy and say positive things in an upbeat manner all the time. Privately, I find myself feeling that something is even more terrible about me that Iâm miserable whereas obviously itâs possible that such contented people exist. At the same time, I have disdain for these types of people, thinking theyâre simple-minded or, worse, theyâre false. This depresses me more.
Often, there is an internal struggle as I imagine a choice to either avoid depression or succumb to it. Part of me does not want to make it âbetterâ for myself, to do the things I know will help, but, rather, wants to delve into the monstrous abyss of it because I feel I deserve it and Iâm too exhausted to fight. Another part of me thinks itâs utterly foolish to imagine I can escape it anyway. Sometimes I pretend for others that Iâm not feeling as I do in the hope that it will go away if I simply ignore it. I know others prefer this. It never works. I went through a period of AA decades ago. One of the things that the group talked about is how those who suffer depression attempt to diminish their feelings through excessive drinking and/or the taking of drugs. Not only does this not lessen it, they asserted, the feelings of unhappiness become addictive (as do AA meetings!). I still consider this, but I donât agree entirely. Indeed, I agree that unhappiness is a richly complex feeling that becomes habitual. I also think thereâs credence to the idea that your brain creates âpathways,â if you will, to well-used âroadsâ of thinking when in doubt. Certainly a degree of self-absorption plays a role. However, happiness is also a rich and complex concept, with a plethora of words to describe subtleties of the feeling, so by rights, isnât it equally addictive? The societal pursuit of it seems to be. Ultimately, I think that imagining depression is a choice, one that is created and perpetuated by the depressive person, means the onus is on them for how badly they feel. This type of thinking exacerbates the suffering that the depressive is already experiencing. It also doesnât seem fair when itâs likely a matter of wonky chemistry and predisposition. Believing itâs âsimplyâ a choice is akin to the archaic and ignorant idea that depression is a âluxury.â
Luxury is too fun for it to be likened to depression. While I think there are elements of choice in the sense that the depressive can work to inhibit a full onslaught of depression, moving it from the caliber of âhigh fidelityâ to âlow fidelity,â I think itâs a disease that people donât like to think about despite its prevalence. If one had cancer (other than lung cancer) then people would not blame the one who has it. Despite the progress made to understand and consequently reduce the stigma of depression, thereâs still a stigma attached to it. I think itâs because people want those around them to reflect their illusion that life has meaning and is ‘good.â One only has to turn to Instagram or Facebook to see that the appearance of a perfect and happy life is a common objective. Ultimately, however, these are idle ruminations because once the curtain of depression descends, logic and reason do not enter. For me, depression is akin to a bad acid trip: one side of me recognizes that the perceptions and feelings are not ârealâ and that I must simply wait for it to pass. The other side of me feels that my bleak perception of myself and the world, and the âinevitableâ outcomes for my emotions, are very real. Itâs tortuous.
If you love someone that struggles with depression and you would like to support them, I suggest the following: keep a wide berth. Not really. In fact, try to let the depressive know (without being oppressively cloying) through verbal and non verbal actions, that they’re not completely alone and they do matter to someone. But don’t use platitudes, that’s horrible. Try to be honest. When in doubt, humor always helps.
Filed under: The Baby Diaries | Tags: American doctors, American medicine, baby blues, birth, British doctors, depression, French doctors, French medicine, insomnia, new infant, post partum, Susan Sontag
Depression is melancholy minus its charms…Susan Sontag
Having a baby triggers a heap of emotions both good and bad â pleasure, joy, enthusiasm, apprehension, anxiety, and, often, depression. Yes, thatâs right. Iâm daring to talk about the elephant in the room. The one that Brits donât generally like to talk about and Americans talk too much about. When Brits talk about depression, their views often reflect their ignorance and outdated myths (or repression): itâs a sign of âweakness,â itâs self-indulgent, and one needs to keep their âchin up,â be positive, and all that. One thoughtless English âfriendâ recently said to me, âOh, I simply donât have the luxury of depression!â
Regarding depression following the birth of a baby, rest assured itâs a complication of birth, not narcissism or an inadequacy on the part of the mother. It can happen a week or two after giving birth, it can happen a year after giving birth, or it can happen after nursing stops. Experts no longer regard depressionâs cause as being purely physical, circumstantial, or emotional, but, rather, a combination of reasons. Physically speaking, after a woman gives birth, thereâs a dramatic drop in hormones (estrogen and progesterone), and other hormones produced by the thyroid also drop sharply. There are changes in blood volume and pressure. Changes to the metabolism and the immune system. The motherâs lifestyle and emotional circumstances also can prompt depression. Perhaps the baby is demanding. Maybe there are other siblings. Perhaps she has difficulty breast-feeding. Or thereâs a lack of personal and practical support. Her body changes, she feels less attractive. She struggles with her sense of identity as she feels a loss of control and independence.
The most common form of depression is called âthe baby blues.â This lasts for a week or two, and causes the new mom to be moody, anxious, irritable, tearful, and unable to concentrate (though what new mother doesnât feel this?). The second type is called âpostpartum depression.â Symptoms include a loss of appetite, insomnia, intense irritability and anger. Overwhelming fatigue. No interest in sex. No sense of joy in life. Feelings of shame, guilt, and inadequacy. Severe mood swings. Withdrawal from friends and family. Thoughts of harming oneself or oneâs baby. Difficulty bonding with the baby. The third type, and the most severe type of postpartum depression, is called âPostpartum Psychosis.â Symptoms include confusion, disorientation, hallucinations, delusions, paranoia, and serious consideration about harming yourself or your baby.
As mentioned, there has historically been a stigma to speaking about depression, so one is understandably reluctant and embarrassed to talk about it. But it is important for your own health, as well as your babyâs health, to talk to your doctor (in the first instance) about any combination of the aforementioned symptoms you may feel. Left untreated, each of these depressions can become more severe in nature and can lead to a chronic depressive disorder. Even when theyâre treated, thereâs an increase in a womanâs risk for future episodes of severe depression. Also, left untreated, the depression will affect your child negatively: studies show that the children of mothers with untreated postpartum depression have an increased likelihood of developing behavioral problems, such as sleeping and eating disorders, hyperactivity, temper tantrums, delays in learning development, language, and socialization skills.
The good news? Itâs not your fault if youâre feeling depressed. And, contrary to the US, where doctors are so used to people asking for help with depression that there is an inadvertent âbusiness as usualâ approach, and contrary to the UK, where the whole âkeep calm and carry onâ myths prevail (itâs ironic to me that this British slogan was first used during WWII, and Winston Churchill was depressive and quite open about this fact), and one must beg for help with depression, the French are incredibly sympathetic, and they believe in a comprehensive approach. One that incorporates modern medicine, such as anti-depressants and sleeping pills, as well as holistic care such as acupuncture, meditation, vitamins, and yoga. So, if youâre feeling bad, and you suspect that you may be depressed, go talk to your local French doctor and read up on the maladie. Discover what it entails and how common it really is â youâll be surprised at how much better you feel afterward, if only by learning that you are not unique in your feelings after all.
Filed under: The Pregnancy Diaries | Tags: apple fritter, depression, divorce, donuts, Dunkin Donuts, LA County Jail, Los Angeles, Los Angeles driving, midget, separation, South Central
âOne of the many lessons that one learns in prison is that things are what they are and will be what they will be.â Oscar Wilde
This week doesnât have much to do with being pregnant other than the fact that Iâve heard this funny story from a friend while Iâm pregnant that gave me a chuckle, which I hope it does with youâŠthis is Steveâs story:
Steve had a fight with his wife while they were living in Los Angeles. He wanted to die. He goes to South Central (a potentially violent area of town). He goes to a disco there. Heâs the only white guy in the club. He gets drunk. He wants to be beaten up. The folks in there feel sorry for him. He finds himself in the parking lot of the club at 3am and thinks âWell, I guess Iâll go home.â Driving home, he sees a Dunkin Donuts and thinks an apple fritter sounds good. He gets one. Heâs driving through an intersection, trying to eat his fritter at the same time, and he grinds his gears. A cop pulls him over. Heâs got an out of state license and heâs drunk. The cop takes him to jail. Heâs put in a cell with about thirty guys. They are mostly Mexican and black. The only other white guys are an old man who looks absolutely crazy and a midget. Really. Itâs not politically correct in there. Every time a new black guy is put in the cell and sees the midget, he exclaims, âWhawt tha fuuuck?!â The toilet in the cell has an industrial strength flush. You have to practically hold onto something to keep from going in. The guys in the cell take a toilet roll and put the paper end bit in the toilet and throw the roll around the cell, then flush the toilet and watch the roll fly around the cell and get swallowed by the toilet, then they all chuckle and do it again. Steve got arrested on a Friday and had to wait for court to open after the weekend. On Monday, theyâre all shackled together and the guard is doing roll call and keeps calling a guyâs name. Itâs the midget. The midget is jumping up raising his hand and finally the guard sees him and says, âAh, no wonder I missed you,â and all the guys in the chain laugh.
Thatâs the end of Steveâs story. Iâll talk about my pregnancy again next week. Till then, things are ticking along and Iâm getting bigger by the week.