These are the faces of PCP. Ouch.
I found this stuff below in the back of one of the truly best magazines you can buy -- no joke -- "High Times", but there was a big "American soldier in the poppy fields" picture above the fold on the cover of the "New York Times" over the long weekend; they always do big weekend drug stories to sell copies, trust me, so it's not like I'm the only one obsessing, blah blah blah-ing about drugs all the time, right?
I drown you in druggy stuff, sure, as the world, too, drowns in drugs all around us; anyway:
Drug test "miracle" hair treatments: questionable.
There's the beauty product tie-in. I'll get back to them in a second.
Now as we all know I am nothing if not spectacularly honest about my own drug use with my employers here at xoJane.com and good ol' Say Media.
Well, you may not have known that. I'll spare you the backstory, but let's just say (and I'm not a thousand percent certain about this myself or anything) but I've long suspected that it was what I may or may not have said -- quite casually, in an email, regarding my use of one particularly hardcore substance -- that landed me on disability recently.
Which I should have predicted would happen (but -- also predictably -- I didn't).
You see, I get very indignant and defensive: "Why I Won't Ever Shut Up About My Drug Use" and the death of Whitney Houston and blah blah blah and all that, you know -- but what I have trouble reconciling is the other side of the coin.
As in, when you make it your business to holler on your employers' platform that you will never shut up about what a junkie you are, your employers are going to send your hollering, attention-seeking 103-lb. junkie ass to rehab.
[Upper management would like it to be known that in the many interactions that preceded Cat's time off, the issue was never what she was writing about. Nor did the company drug test or threaten to drug test or have anything to do with her pee or hair. --Jane]
[It's 4:05 AM and Cat incidentally would like to sneak in and punctuate that "Jane's Note" with a saucy shimmy of the hips and a "He-yyyy!" to Say Media Legal. --CAT]
To, you know ... save you!
Like Whitney Houston did!
In retrospect I'm not really sure why it took me so long to figure this out.
Anyway, I've come to accept that, truly, all this might have happened ... not because the people helming my company want to squeeze all of the life and writing out of me until I die a mangled track marked-ridden mess of a beauty editor has-been on Avenue D or where ever it is I take my final breath, wearing Patrizia Pepe leather clamdiggers (don't ask) and a gory old noseblood-smock, with a Juicepress Dr. Green clutched in bony hand -- but because they actually care about my well-being.
I have come to understand that just because someone is a middle-aged man (not that there's anything wrong with that; I just slept with one over the holiday weekend) and happens to run my company, that doesn't mean he is trying to, you know -- DR. DAD me and control my mental health, my sobriety, my weight, and my body.
And I have come to a peaceful resolution, within myself, with my own place within the company, and my future here: I'm going to keep being myself, because God knows I don't know how to be anything else, and that means...
I'm going to keep being honest!
Are you shocked? No, you are not. That is because I am compulsively show-off-y; I'd sooner die than be mysterious and subtle, and hide my life away. Please (how would I get any attention anymore...?).
THEREFORE, in exchange for my generous honesty, which is surely making Say Media and Jane Pratt MILLIONS (tens) of dollars (and here -- wait for it -- comes the [biggest] Cat Marnell Signature Obnoxious Pronouncement of the Day™):
...I, in return, therefore, expect never to be drug tested!
NEVER EVER EVER!!!
I don't think my bosses will have a problem with this, actually. I mean, definitely not Jane (shall we even bother to unscroll the epic list of authentic needle-in-arm junkies she employed throughout the 90s?).
After all, Say Media is a company from the way-liberal city of San Francisco. I once attended an intensive yet fun staff training seminar there and was delighted by my new company's laid-back approach to employee relations, particularly at the party that concluded the whole thing.
There were cute, hyper dogs everywhere (Say owns the awesome Dogster) and I am obsessed with dogs, plus the most amazing guacamole bar ever, and I love avacados. I even sipped a little beer, which I am generally loathe to since I think it just goes straight to my clavicle.
Best of all, I was very sick at the time and going through bad things and had missed my flight and shown up seven hours late due to an epic angel dust binge (though the company didn't know all that about me at the time) -- at which the very photo above, in fact, of me looking like a big slutty glazed donut on a dumpy flophouse deathbed was taken...
And no one was even really mad (or if they were, I never heard about it -- maybe I chose to forget; hmm).
They were just glad I had friggin' made it.
And even though I had resented having to fly all the way out there -- God, do I ever not complain? -- I was glad I'd made it, too.
You have to admire a company that hires a freak -- who hangs in there with her. You have to admire a Jane Pratt, whom I put through hell and send horrible emails every second of my life -- all in the name of what I will shriek and argue hysterically tearfully, when I get upset in her office, to be "HONESTY!!!" -- yes, "honesty that no one around here seems to be able to fucking handle but ME!"
(When did "rudeness" and "honesty" become so blurry? ...I guess one obvious answer is that inevitably everything becomes blurred for baddies -- and when we find our ways back, we find our ways back, and gradually, maybe, things start to come into focus again.)
I will climb further atop my soapbox here, and yes I am dead sober and so no I will not fall off -- this is about PRINCIPLES, okay -- and say also this:
You (I) have to be grateful (or is "grateful" too gushy -- should we expect more from the world?) for any system -- a workplace, a family, whatever -- that allows honesty and encourages individuality and freedom, even when it is dangerous.
This danger can exist on many levels, and threaten many things -- lives; companies; that ad money, honey! You know?!
It's the only way interesting* stuff -- interesting written stuff, and perhaps particularly that a mainstream female audience might not ever think about or encounter anywhere else -- can exist these days.
(*Now please take a second to note that I'm not saying that drugs are interesting, neccessarily, okay -- though God knows until you've had a psychotic break on angel dust you haven't lived) (and died at the same time) (and known what that feels like) (incidentally I sooo-OOO would not suggest it).
BUT. If and when the day comes that my company stops letting me be such a libertine -- and I doubt that will happen, at this point -- I will perhaps purchase the above Test'in Shampoo and Mix Your Own Chem-Out Hair Cleansing Mudd, products which promise to strip all the drugs from your follicles and make you pass work-ordained drug tests with flying colors!
Or at least with a 99.9% success rate, if one leaves it on for a whopping six goddamn hours the day of the test.
They are expensive as hell, though no more expensive than the drugs you've been gorging on, I'd assume; let's be real. And who knows if they work? I wish they'd send some my way (wink wink) for a trial run.
The Mudd is for heavy users (1-4 times per week; they probably just mean pot) -- a.k.a me (told you I was honest!) -- and I don't really get what the hell it is. Apparently you mix up a bunch of other stuff (Activator, Chem-Out, Hair-Splash -- whateva!) you can buy over here on PassYourDrugTest.com. I encourage you hot messes to click the link above and explore.
Actually, no. QUIT YOUR JOBS. Peter Pan out the office window and find your own personal NeverNeverland! Second star to the left and straight on 'til ... well, I don't know where.
To somewhere that makes more sense. Like ... Europe, on a tight budget; or obviously, to a different job. I'm not that dumb; I'm trying to grow up these days, too. Paychecks are sexy. Prrr.
Still. I would never stand for any of this drug test silliness and you shouldn't either.
Now don't misunderstand me. Is it WRONG of a job to drug test an employee? No way!
If you're a drug user and you're a wrong fit for a job, you're not doing yourself any favors. If you're putting yourself through hell scrubbing drugs out of your hair for a job, choosing between two lives -- well, something isn't right.
Two paths just shouldn't diverge in a yellow friggin' wood like that! You know?! I'm probably getting the poem wrong, but whatever.
The moral of it all from someone with admittedly bizarre -- though I do have a ton of them -- morals: Find a better yellow wood for you. Path. Wood. Job. Metaphor. Writer. Beauty editor.
You get my point.
We're all grown-ups now! We shouldn't be pulling out our hair for other people, or peeing on our hands.
You only have one fabulous little life. Get gonzo. Free your mind. Be you; do you. You've got a beautiful brain -- use it right, in the right place. And YOU -- only you -- get to decide what "right" is (my "right" is very WRONG to a lot of people, for example).
And with that...finally...
The end! Happy weekends!
(I'm starting drivers ed. How about you? xoxoxo)
Follow Cat on Twitter @cat_marnell (but be forewarned she clearly has no idea where she's going).