My father once again accused me of "getting high" tonight because I slept through the prearranged time for me to walk over and get my medications. I was just taking a nap so I could stay up and listen to my favorite Saturday night radio program that airs until well after midnight. He thinks I am getting high off of Tylenol.
"How did you learn to get high off of aspirin and Tylenol?" he asks me as I was sitting on my bed blearily getting dressed.
I laughed and it just served to piss him off more and he left huffily after giving me my schizophrenia medications.
I called Rosa and told her about it needing a friend to talk to.
"Dad thinks I am getting fucked up off of taking Tylenol," I say.
Rosa burst out laughing.
"That is so naïve," she says. "Every crack head and druggie in the world would be mainlining Tylenol if that were true."
"I know," I reply. "It is all so silly and rather tiresome. Now he will not speak to me for several days."
"You ought to go buy a case of beer or fifth of whiskey and sit in his backyard getting drunk," Rosa says. "Give him something real to worry about."
Rosa then asked me why I didn't take George on the drunken express tonight. I had to remind her that Saturday night is George's weekly poker night with all the crackheads over at Pookie's house.
"Well, let me go take about ten Tylenol and get a good buzz," I tell Rosa, sarcastically.
She laughed uncontrollably and then regained her composure to say, "I am coming over and we can have a Tylenol party."
I told her good night and hung up the phone with a big smile on my face.