[Note: this piece could probably use an "editing eye," as Tim Gunn would say, but I'm drunk]

I learned a disturbing thing about myself earlier today, a thing having to do with novocaine and term limits. But first, a little back-story. It concerns college, coffee, and housewife drugs.

I'm a fella who really likes coffee, in spite of how cliched that sounds (sorry, Jeff). Don't worry, I'm not one of these trite idiots who talks about coffee as if it's some indispensable life-giving elixir or anything. I don't "need" the coffee. I don't say "oh my god, I can't do anything without my morning coffee, know what I mean?" I just really like the taste, the aroma, and the warmth. I don't need, or even feel, the caffeine. Whatever addictive hold it has over others, it doesn't have that over me. The reason for this is simple; massive overexposure in my youth. The coffee got me through college, or at least it tried to.

In 1999 I began attending Otis College of Art and Design. I knew it would be difficult and time-consuming. How many colleges aren't difficult and time-consuming? I'm sure most of them are; but this felt like something more. There was so much work. So much homework. I felt like I never got to sleep anymore. Ordinarily I would just chalk it up to my obsessive nature, my need to re-do projects until I thought they were perfect, but every student appeared to be going through the same ordeal as me.

A typical day at Otis consisted of 8-12 hours of classes, followed by 8-10 hours of homework. There's only 24 hours in a day. I would tell you to do the math, but telling someone to do the math strikes me as needlessly cruel. Math is hard. My only point here is that this only left like 4 hours for sleeping on any given day, and I also had a full-time job on the side. Time and sleep were in precious short supply. I wasn't about to become a speed freak, and I already loved my coffee. The answer would seem to be obvious- just drink more of it.

This brilliant scheme of mine worked until halfway through my Sophomore year, and then it stopped. I had consumed so much coffee that the effects of the caffeine were no longer noticeable at all. I could drink a pot of coffee and take a nap. I could drink two pots and have trouble staying awake in class all day. One night I drank a 4-pack of Red Bull in order to finish a project, then promptly fell the hell asleep. The only reason I didn't drink a 6-pack of Red Bull is that they don't make 6-packs. Whatever stimulants were supposed to do to the human body, they were no longer doing it to me.

I graduated 6 years ago, but the immunity has stayed with me. I hear stories from people who say that one cup of coffee has them bouncing off the walls. I shake my head. I tell them about the 4 Red Bull night and they look at me like I just denied the Holocaust. Trust me, I'm not bragging. I'd love to be able to slam a Red Bull and be instantly rewared with the manic energy of Robin Williams from his coke days. Minus the horrible John Wayne impression, you understand. Doesn't happen. Coffee knocks me out. Red Bull doesn't do anything but cause me to marvel at its horrible taste and dopey commercials. I've built up a tolerance that will most likely never subside.

I told you that story so I could tell you this one.

Me and some pals went to Burning Man a couple of weeks ago, as many of you know. Burning Man means a lot of things to me, and one of those things is the opportunity to take a load off and get loaded. I deserve it. I behave in a healthy fashion all year. I drink sparingly and don't do any drugs to speak of. I barely even smoke dope at all, which is almost enough to get your California citizenship revoked. One toke off a j makes me sleepy and puts me into a paranoid space that would make Howard Hughes take notice. I'm a good boy. Except at Burning Man, where the sky's the limit (sorry, Mom).

I don't mean to make it sound like I was a complete stoner or anything, just that it's a more relaxed atmosphere. A little guilt-free recreational drug use is all. There's no need to get into the gory details, just know that it was enjoyable. It ended as soon as I left.

The festivities began and ended with a nice infusion of housewife drugs. Vicodin, percocet, valium, the usual. They put you in a nice headspace, they help with the aches and pains, and they don't keep you up all night. I enjoy doing the HW. Unfortunately for myself, the heroic amount of HW activities directly contributed to my rather unpleasant day at the dentist. As if the dentist needed to be any less enjoyable.

It seems that the surfeit of HW-ing did quite a number on my tolerance for soporifics. Turns out when you consume a superhuman amount of opiates you get a higher threshold, just like with coffee. It seems obvious now, doesn't it? I did a buttload of painkillers out in the desert, there was sure to be some physiological carryover.

The end result is that the kindly dentist gave me a perfectly logical amount of novocaine for my procedures, and a mere hour later I had purged the entire dosage from my system. He's poking around in there and I'm white-knuckling it the whole time. Squirming in my seat and being rather obvious about it.

"Are you feeling any of this?" he asked, somewhat incredulously.
"yes" I replied in a very small voice.
 "Do you want more novocaine?" he asked in a skeptical voice.
"yes please" I answered in an even smaller voice than before.

Luckily for me, he obliged. I made it through the rain. Poor Dr. Lane, I hope he doesn't think I'm chasing the dragon or something. It was just a little percocet, I swear. It's not like I'm Brett Favre. They were nice and cozy, as illicit substances go. Nothing I'd like to make a daily habit out of.

So what did you learn, Dorothy? Well, a couple of things. One is that I probably can't run for President now. We also learned that once a year I am a horrible disappointment to my sainted mother. And that housewives have their own version of drug addiction, one we're not supposed to think is weird at all. And finally, you can always ask for some more novocaine. He has to give it to you.

Gotta go, gang. I got a hot date with a certain Mr. Jack Daniels.