Being on Steroids

Photo by mensatic, Morgue File

Being on steroids is like:

Normal…during a high-speed chase.

Arnold Schwarzenegger on helium.

Looking into a cracked mirror and still being able to see a whole face.

Being drunk in the middle of the night and calling every girl in your black book, only this time you actually speak coherently when asking for a blow job.

Cheese and crackers, cheese and crackers, wine, wine, wine, wine, wine, wine, wine

Cheese and crackers, cheese and crackers, wine, wine, wine, wine, wine, wine, wine

Working on a chain gang by yourself.

Being the shiniest ornament on the Christmas tree.

Wishing you had just a few more days of treatment so you could bang out that masterpiece you’ve been meaning to write before the end of the week.

Talking in texting.

Playing ping pong…alone.

Having George Thorogood’s song “Who Do You Love?” playing over and over in your head and when you finally try to switch, the only other song you can think of is Devo’s “Whip It.” And you can’t switch back.

Apples and oranges….swirling in a blender.

A caffeine high without the coffee.

Hang gliding…in space.

Oh crap, it’s 2 a.m.????

Eating marijuana brownies and washing them down with rocket fuel.

Sibling rivalry, and you’re an only child.

A three-martini lunch chased with a 5-hour energy shot.

A perfect excuse for everything you say or do. “Oh, did I just call you a bitch? So sorry, it’s the steroids talking.” “No, I didn’t mean to bite your face off. It must be those damn steroids.”

Wile E. Coyote after realizing there’s no more mesa.

Finally being able to appreciate the complexities of multiple personality disorder.

Crap, but a helluva lot better than not being on steroids.