That makes five psychotropics.
The lithium is making me feel like the day after bender. At least I think so; I’ve never drank myself sick. I was talking to Cookie Monster about it, and he said that was about right. I believe him, too–you never see him without a beer or a glass of scotch. We had a nice conversation about it, but he had the annoying habit of going “nom nom nom nom nom” even when he wasn’t eating. It was getting a bit creepy. I finally told him to go home.
My Chemical Romance seems like a good name for my life. It’s too bad the name is taken. I could call it My Chemical Marriage, since that’s closer to the truth. I’d still probably get sued. Or just given dirty looks, which would be worse.
When I’m not sick I’m spacing or sleeping. Sick, spacing, sleeping. I like alliterations. I’ve waken up convinced it was the day before. Everyone tells me otherwise. I think I’ve been slipping through a hole in the space-time continuum. That’s pretty cool. My goal is to do that consciously, but so far all I’ve been able to do is fall asleep and off the bed. That hurt.
Sick, spacing, sleeping, slipping. Neato. I’m hoping I can add sorcery to the list. I’d get a black cloak with a deep cowl to hide my face and add to my mystery. I’d study the forces of destruction and become a magic-slinging vigilante superhero. If I had a lightsaber, I could become a Jedi. But that’s just ridiculous–there’s no master for me to have apprenticed with. Pity, that.
My wife is ready to kill me. With the arsenal her father has, the only difficult part would be deciding which of the canons to blow me away with. I don’t blame her. My psychiatrist says that I have many faces, and that’s not even including my Pokémon costumes. I wish most of them would move to Idaho. They don’t pay rent and never put the milk back in the fridge. Annoying bastards.
I forgot what I was going to write next. It was probably something profoundly witty and quotable. So of course I forgot–Fate gets a giggle out of shit like that.
– J
I am: walking nowhere.
I don’t know about fate, but I am not finding this funny at all.
I’m concerned about you.
You don’t even sound like yourself.
I wish there was something I could do.
I hope I sound like Pierce Brosnan then. Smooth baritone with a British accent… gotta dig that.
Seriously, no worries. You’ve got more than your share of crap to deal with.
I’ll have to admit, though. This stuff has been making it difficult to write. Sorry if it sounds stupid.
It doesn’t sound stupid, and I’ve written more than one blurb that sounded just like this, but I’m with Ben on this… You don’t really sound like yourself.
I think you might want to talk to your doctor about dosage and drug interferences.
I hope you’re okay. *hug*