Tomorrow I let this tether go and send my moon careening off into space. Really I'm more the moon, and the earth - drugs, of course - is the one sending me careening off into the unknown. This is the speech of an addict, but I'm not really.
Tomorrow I go off Duties Not to Include Flying (DNIF), which means that the pills get tucked into cupboards and toilets and places the feds won't find when they raid my apartment. It's like Samson losing his hair. I suppose I could pray for healing, but then I've found the results henceforth to be rather unconvincing, steeped in mythological lore as I am, it hasn't provided one iota the relief of a pill or an IV or a shot of rum.
So, clean an free, start my clock. I've been sober now for at least 12 hours. It'll be 24 when I sign my sanity to the gods of flying status tomorrow, and from there we'll see. I still get periodic throbbings, swellings, and juicings from Mr. Socket, Dry, but there you have it; I'm a working man and I don't think I can get disability for constant oral discomfort. Maybe I should check on that, actually.
