The other night, Warren—my hot, cocky, young boyfriend—came over after work to pick me up. As soon as he arrived, I popped a Vicodin. I love Vicodin. I love it for many reasons. First of all, I am in my ninth year of not drinking, if you don’t count the three times I accidentally ingested booze hidden in food (hint to teetotalers: watch out for that sake laced mussel broth at Uchi, people) and the sip of Kahlua I had mixed in a coffee one night at Jeffrey’s. (Aside: For the record, Spike is not one to frequent places like Uchi and Jeffrey’s. Really. Those were special occasions.) I also haven’t had any pot, if you don’t count two hits in Mexico, December ’06 (and no, I did not inhale), since the late nineties, when I needed hourly bong hits in order to maintain my “relationship” with the bikini-underpants-clad cheater I mentioned last week. So, like, nearly a decade ago....