Ray Reilly, hipster extraordinare, gorgeous large guy with a beeeeyoutiful Irish tenor, much older than me, advised, "If you decide to go out there, don't go out alone. I've got a good source for exotics, lemme know and I 'll be your guide."

 But  back then I didn't have the appreciation for large guys who can sing jazz that I do now. I was dating Ché Guevara's twin brother and I never tried Ray's "exotics" in the end.

Once at a party, a woman trying to persuade me to take a walk on the wild side, shared with me some opiated hash. I spent the rest of the party in the arms of Jim the surfer dude, talking about string theory, then got into my car to go home. It was a short ride, about 5 miles to my house, and I figured I was good to drive, until the large white tigers started jumping over my car. That was half-way home. Somehow I made it in one piece and from that moment on, decided that drugs are not for me.

Later, when I was studying at Temple, I  had a psychotic room-mate who laced my food with psilocybin ( 'shrooms). For two weeks I thought I was losing my mind, then she confessed. I moved out shortly after that.

The last time I smoked pot was before the Imp was born. It had to be 1991 or so, Amsterdam quality...pre-skunk. I didn't get high or have any insights into string theory, but my friends and I ate EVERYTHING that was edible in the kitchen that night.

These days I am so very cautious, so upstanding. My highs come from working out, sometimes writing, sometimes out of a bottle of fine wine. I fear that this has turned me into someone who Ché's twin would not recognize,  someone bourgeois and middle aged. Someone with whom my husband has fallen out of love. I miss my immortal self, the one who lived without fear. Sometimes I wish Ray Reilly would show up at my door with his bag of peyote dreams and offer to take me out there and sing me to heaven on a magic carpet of jazz.