Update from Molly's Vacation, No. 1

Many things have happened since I bid you all a drunken farewell at the Last Final End-of-the-Year Hyena Party Part II. I have consumed a number of questionable substances to varying degrees of success (varying between 'awesome' and 'awesomekickasserton') but I have neither the time or short-term memory to relate them to you here - check them out in my forthcoming memoirs "Nicotine and Willpower" due out in fall '10 on Regnery Books. That's a political joke, chucklemites.

This, however, happened about 10 minutes ago over our second poorman's pina colada (for future reference, what makes them milky-colored? Is it milk? I hate milk. Mine's disappointingly orange in color but delightfully rum-my.)

Apparently, all varieties of drugs hit suburban Delware in the 50s and 60s with sudden force and my devil-may-care mother indulged her fair share. What does this mean, exactly?

My mother was born in 1952.
She was 15 in 1967.

Why is this relevant?

My mother tried heroin. Intervenously. When she was 15 years old.

Now, I've never injected heroin, but my surviving peers who have insist its like this:

(i.e. Totally sweet)

My mother, on the other hand, insists that it was more like this:


(i.e. Passed out from five hours)

Enough! I have more drinking and eventual driving to get to! I was mostly just tired of checking this blog with such high hopes only to see Alex's damn dinosaur puns again.