Archive for April, 2006
Sometimes, when I think I’m being irrational, I think back to my most irrational moments and realize that really, things could be so much worse. The Diet, it’s making me a little irrational. Today in computer training at work, a colleague was eating a cookie. A giant, soft chocolate chip cookie and I swear to you, in that moment, I would have given her anything for that cookie. A kidney, Sunbun, my first-born… I haven’t had a sweet in more than three weeks, unless you could dried apricots. Which I do not, because they aren’t that sweet, and also, they have side effects.
I want a cookie. And a giant slice of cake. And a tiramisu. But whatever.
Whenever I feel myself getting nuts about something, I remember what it felt like to quit smoking and it’s all smacked into perspective. I know, I know, everyone says that, but seriously, I was bad. Insane, even. Not only was I short-tempered and anxious and generally ANNOYED at everything, but I did not care who I offended, or how my perpetual annoyance manifested itself. At all. And I was completely unaware of it.
The Annoyance reached a fever pitch at Stop ‘n Shop, which was about a half a block away from our apartment in Brookline, just outside of Boston. I was dating Adam at the time, but living with Jenny and Eve, and…basically Abe and Chris, Eve’s now-fiance, and…Pat? Stephen? Someone, whoever was Jenny’s boyfriend du jour. Six people, tiny apartment. I’d already had at least two mild episodes where I distinctly recall stomping up and down the stairs and all but accusing Eve of stealing my gym socks because JUST BECAUSE CHRIS wore Ralph Lauren socks, didn’t mean that ALL RL gym socks in the house were his and I CANNOT GO TO THE GYM WITHOUT SOCKS. I wish I were lying when I said I remember the stomping. There was a LOT of stomping over the gym socks and I think there might have been the throwing of the laundry basket in the general vicinity of a very bewildered Eve.
I assure you, I do not act like this normally, but nicotine withdrawal is something else.
So, Stop ‘n Shop. Abe and I had gone grocery shopping for our evening meal, and, after much consternation and confusion, ended up with a cart full of random groceries that may or may not help us to not smoke anymore, including carrots, grapes, Kit Kats and lots and lots of ice cream. And Coke. Two six-packs of the plastic bottles that were, apparently, on sale, and this was important, because I usually drank diet Pepsi, but because the Coke products were on sale, we got Coke. And I wasn’t happy about it, because I was LOYAL to Diet Pepsi, but they were on sale, and since I was saving so much money not buying cigarettes, why not ADD to the savings by buying Coke that was on sale? Yay, Coke! I’d be in Barbados in no time just by savings alone!
Except, it wasn’t on sale. Or rather, it was, but the scanner didn’t recognize it when we went to check out. And this? WAS UNACCEPTABLE.
“Excuse me, those Cokes are on sale. $.50 off per package. That price is wrong.”
“No, ma’am, the system would have rung them up if they were.”
“NO. They are. Re-scan them, call someone or SOMETHING, because they are. I know this.” I was getting agitated.
Since there was a line wrapped around several aisles with throngs of angry mothers staring at me in complete exasperation, because really, they just wanted to go home and have dinner with their families, she tried to appeal to my rational sensibilities and insisted, “Ma’am, please. I can’t do anything if this is what it’s scanning except call the manager, and we’re short-handed tonight, so it could be a long time. Please. Please.” She was so calm, I remember this, which makes it so much worse.
“THEN CALL THE FUCKING MANAGER. THIS IS NOT MY PROBLEM.” My mind, it was gone, dreaming of nicotine.
“Please. It’s not important. Let’s just take it and go.” Abe was begging. And really, that was all the incentive I needed to go off like I have never gone off before or since, because my boyfriend was not supporting me in my time of need.
“Not important. NOT FUCKING IMPORTANT?! NOT FUCKING IMPORTANT?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” I was near tears and worse, I was just getting warmed up.
“Abe. ABE. Every day – every single day, grocery stores are making money off of us. MONEY THEY DID NOT EARN. Companies like Coke are cashing in on our stupidity. Why? Because of FALSE SCANS. THEY LIE TO GET US TO BUY THEIR PRODUCT AND NEVER ENTER IT INTO THE SCANNER AND NO ONE NOTICES. I’ve seen this on 20/20. Barbara Walters told me. And it’s time we stand up for our rights as consumers and stop being taken advantage of.”
Here’s where my head actually spins around. I took a deep breath:
“Because we are being raped. Yes, RAPED. FUCKED UP THE ASS BY THE MAN BECAUSE OF SALES THAT WE CANNOT TAKE ADVANTAGE OF. And I don’t know about you, but my anus is FUCKING TIRED OF THE ASS RAPING AND I AM GOING TO WAIT FOR THE SALE TO GO THROUGH.” I pointed to my tired, raped ass and glared at the clerk, tapping my foot impatiently.
I am not making this up.I can’t believe I am allowed in any grocery store nationwide. Miraculously, Abe didn’t yell. He didn’t scream. The line of people started slowly backing away from me in terror, moving to other lines that were even longer, because GOD, this lady could whip out a GUN, she was so crazy. He just calmly put down the rest of the groceries, plunked a $20 bill into my hand, and left me there. Just left me there screaming at the Stop n’ Shop lady about the indignities of the sodomy I’d fallen victim to, pointing to my sore ass in utter disgust.
She gave me $1 off the whole order and begged me to never come back to her line ever again. Since I still believed I was justified, I threatened to call the manager on her, and huffed off with my full grocery cart, still steaming about the indignity and humiliation and RAPING I’d just suffered at the hands of Coca Cola and Stop ‘n Shop.
It wasn’t until I got home that I realized what I’d done, and come to my senses. And smoked a cigarette. It took me two more tries to quit smoking, and thank God I never did that to anyone during any of the other attempts.
It’s been five years since I stopped smoking. And now I know that I can totally live without the cookie, because this diet is NOTHING compared to that misery. And I’m still loyal to Pepsi, because damn, Coke fucked me over.
April 26th, 2006
Like many people my age, I had my moment in the dot-com sun, as did Adam. Unlike many of our friends, we did not make millions. Like, at all.
I spent almost 10 years working in PR and marketing for technology companies based in Boston and San Francisco, which includes about a bajillion dot-coms, some of which burned through $100 million in less than two years and promptly died, and some that are actually quite well known, and still successful. But, I have nothing to show for it, unlike our millionaire friends from college who got in at the ground level at companies like this and this, and started ventures like this, and hilarious side projects like this. All I have to show for my years of free bagels is a fat ass, a slew of options and shares in defunct companies, and an enviable collection of dot-com schwag, such as T-shirts, mugs and water bottles. We even scored some fancy water glasses from our favorite dot-com, Kozmo.com. Did you know they would deliver anything – ANYTHING, including digital cameras, movies and toothpaste, within an hour? TO YOUR DOOR? I miss them.
But, while we are not millionaires, we remain Technology People, in that any new thing that comes on the market, we research and ponder, if not buy, and anything happening with the Internet, we follow. I am a giant Internet Geek, and although I spent my years in PR dreaming of the day I could get out, I still follow technology companies, and I’m still fascinated at the impact the Internet has our daily lives. And let’s remember that after the dot-com bust, I stayed in technology for five more years, and went on to pitch companies in hot areas such as packet switching, fiber-to-the-desktop media converters and speech recognition software. Fucking riveting. So although some of my worst memories in PR are surrounding sending a truckload of angry contest winners to Aruba for a random, stupid contest for this company (They WON A TRIP TO ARUBA. And still, they complained. And screamed. And cried. AND WENT TO ARUBA, FOR FREE. AND SCREAMED AT ME ANYWAY), I remain attached to the Internet and all its workings. Because it’s pretty fucking cool. And also, weird.
I remember the days so vividly, when there was so much VC money floating we thought we’d explode from the fat, and I don’t think I could have gotten fired even if I came into work, took my pants off and farted on a lit match, because THEY NEEDED ME THAT MUCH. And also, that kind of behavior was usually covered by our too-young-to-be-believed CEOs of our dot-com clients. One actually came in wearing jeans that showed his asscrack, and, because he was paying us $100,000 every month for lame PR services, we had to sit there and smile while his asscrack smiled back.
Anyway, those days were heady. And it’s kind of feeling that way again in the blogging world. I promise, I’m not going to blog about blogging – not my blogging, anyway, or why I do it or any of that shit, because who cares? And also, you already know. But the thing is, I’ve noticed that every single news site has started “blogs” and new companies are hiring well-known bloggers to help them build community*. There are entire agencies devoted to finding bloggers to offer them book deals. And citizen journalism is everywhere, and viewed as the new frontier in news today. Christ, the BBfuckingC announced a broad, sweeping citizen journalism initiative that was no doubt influenced by the blogging generation. A friend of mine, a well-known columnist at a major metro daily, told me she believes she will be obsolete by the end of the year, booted by bloggers who compete with her for free. Blogs are the new dot-coms. “Our audience is becoming tired. Let’s start a blog!” It reminds me of all those brick-and-mortar stores that added an ‘i’ or a ‘.com’ to their name to stay relevant. iParty, anyone? FortheLoveofGolfDOTCOM?
I don’t believe it’s sustainable. I just don’t. I believe that blogging will stick around, but I don’t believe it can maintain its momentum, or its notoriety, and I think the quota for professional bloggers is just about up. And while I don’t think the crash will hit nearly as hard as that infamous bubble burst did, for blogging doesn’t cost a thing, thank God, save for hosting costs, I think it’s inevitable that we’ll feel it. Certainly not in the reduction of blogs, but in the opportunities that bloggers can expect to be afforded, just because they’re bloggers.
There are so many great writers out there. So, so many. It’s been a pleasure to see how beautifully this brings them all out. Eventually, though, because everyone reads the same 15 famous bloggers, everyone starts to sound the same – one collective voice per genre, emulating what’s worked in other areas and trying to recreate it. When all is said and done, I think the best will stick around, but I think so many people will inevitably dry up and walk away, abandoning their attempts at becoming writers because it didn’t come easy, which is so sad. But the reality is, it’s not that easy, and I don’t think it should be. Am I that big of a hardass? Because I think I want more than this., and I think a lot of bloggers are good enough to deserve more than this.
I’m taking two more fiction classes this summer – one online, and one in real life. Because talking about yourself gets old, and as much as it’s good for getting through life, and figuring things out, and connecting with people, I’m not sure this is really helping me become a better writer. In fact, in some ways I think it’s making me a worse one. I won’t give it up, but I no longer see it for what I first thought it was. I’m not writing, I’m getting free therapy, for chrissake. And no way should I expect anything for that except what I’m already getting.
*I like these women. And I’m happy for them, so please don’t misunderstand this as a statement that they are undeserving, or the opportunities they are afforded are somehow invalid. That’s not what I’m saying.
April 25th, 2006
There are some words in the English language that should just, well, never be used again. I’m not talking about the usual truly awful words like racial slurs or general Bad Words. And it doesn’t include many of the words that lots of people really really hate, like the infamous C word, or even the word I just recently learned (who says learning doesn’t continue through adulthood?), but is really and truly foul. And, conveniently, this word is also the beginning of a town in Massachusetts called “Felcherville”. We will definitely not be moving to Felcherville if we go back. Even if they give out free bunnies, dogs and rainbows with every purchase. I don’t care.
I’m talking everyday, ordinary words that people – even you, gentle readers – probably use every day, but don’t really realize how icky they really are.
Seriously? I do not wear panties. NO ONE wears panties, except for maybe pedophiles and fetishists, after they’ve gathered them from their lovers and possibly victims or, more likely, purchased in bulk on eBay from a depraved entrepreneur. I wear UNDERWEAR, thankyouverymuch, and as utilitarian as that sounds, the most diminutive I will allow the word to get is – and this is on a very magnanimous day – “undies.”
Unless you’re talking about a Duncan Hines cake, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t. It conjures visions of damp…panties…and I just can’t take it. NO MORE MOIST. And moisture? NO. NO MOISTURE. Begone! Dry is the new black!
I can’t figure out a way around this, so I use it with utter reluctance. But I will take any and all suggestions for an alternative word, because every. single. time. someone says ‘napkin,’ the first thing that pops into my head is “sanitary,” and then, “Stay-Free,” and then I have images of plastic-y sanitary napkins, like Always. And really? That’s gross. I try not to judge anyone on their choice of feminine hygiene products, because, really, who thinks about such things? – but Always are just awful. For so many reasons. So maybe, if you use Always, don’t tell me. I don’t know if I’ll be okay with it.
For some reason, when my husband says this in anger (usually in anger to another driver on the road, to give you some context), it evokes such a visceral reaction from me, and really, it’s because it sounds so close to ‘cake,’ and I like cake, but do not like the connotation of cock and cake. Or worse, moist cake and cock. GROSS. Really, who wants to think of cake and penises (penii?) together? THEY DON’T MIX. Cake. Cock. I’ll just have cake, thanks. With frosting, sans penis.
Puberty/pubic/any pu- prefix, including public
Just…no. No pew. NO PEW. No pew-ANYTHING. PEW. NO NO NO. Again, I’m fine with the meaning, it’s the WORD. Pubic? GROSS. Crotchal? Nether-regions? Even, VAGINA? I’m a-okay with ’em. PUBIC. No. Puberty is worse. And that includes the concept. I haven’t uttered the word in at least 10 years, and I’m not starting now. No.
In any context, this is just…wrong. The word isn’t a turn on, it’s never appropriate, and the word grosses me out infinitely more than its actual meaning could ever dream of doing. Seriously. Banish it. Let’s call them “fleenies.” Cute word, acceptable meaning, everyone is happy. Nipples = fleenies. For reference, let’s try this: “Gee, these Victoria’s Secret bras do a great job of covering my fleenies!” and “I have fleenies the size of eraserheads! And they really wake up in the cold!”
Try saying that with the word “nipple” in place of it. Gross, right? But fleenies makes it all better! FLEENIES FOR EVERYONE! Singular is “fleeny” in case you were wondering.
*Berlin. How great were they? Metro! No More Words! Yay, Berlin! Where did you go, other than VH1? WHERE?
April 18th, 2006
I’m drinking a lot these days. I hardly noticed, but A. pointed it out the other night as I poured myself my third giant drink of the evening. Mind you, I would have stopped at three, and it was a Saturday night, and “a lot” to me amounts to something close to nothing, and isn’t really a problem because really, two glasses of wine in the evenings isn’t much, so stop laughing. But still. The drinking! There is a glass of chardonnay in my hand as I type this. The NEVERENDING DRINKING!
I mean, I’m kind of joking. But this week, I’m craving alcohol – not its effects, but the look of it, the taste, the surprising, unexpectedly odd beauty of a drink: the viscosity of wine in a glass, that unmistakable color of bourbon as it sloshes around the bottle and my GOD, the wonder of a cloudy, very dirty martini with four plump olives resting on a cute little pick to the side. If I could conjure one right now, I would, and I would keep the wine and drink that, too. Because I can’t get enough.
I’m reading Augusten Burroughs’ Dry, and instead of reading his account of alcoholism and taking heed, and drying out myself, I’m craving it. It’s not that I want to be an alcoholic, but hearing someone talk about alcohol as they would a lover – describing its taste so acutely, and with such affection makes me want to swim in a giant martini glass full of Ketel One.
I’m almost finished with the book, so this, too, shall pass. I did the same thing when I read Fast Food Nation. You’d think that a book about the evils of the fast food industry – including a detailed, multi-chapter tirade on the absolutely abhorrent behavior, hygiene and ethics of the meat packing industry – would turn a girl off of cheeseburgers in waxy paper, but no. I craved them with an intensity that would warm the cockles of Ray Croc’s heart. And even now, just thinking about that book, I could run right out and get a Quarter Pounder with cheese and a large fry and devour it so quickly it would be gone before I even pulled into the driveway.
Truth be told, I’m not even enjoying Dry. I want to like Augusten – I want to feel like we’re friends, and that I’m with him on this odd little journey that I’d never want to experience first-hand, but instead, I’m intensely, irrationally pissed at him in a way that I’m actually embarrassed to admit. I’m oddly jealous of his disastrous life, for lack of a better definition. The books he’s been able to write from it, and the gift of material. Commence stoning at any time.
In my darkest, smallest, hormone-induced moments, I imagine how much easier it must be for him to write from such a background, and I’m actually annoyed at him for it, and then I’m even more annoyed at myself for being such a gigantic, huge asshole. I mean, I am a person who gets jealous of alcoholics for their material. Because I? AM STUNTED when it comes to writing at the moment, and I’m spinning my wheels. And also, drinking. And wishing for Big Macs. And trying to write a book that just isn’t coming to me as easily as it did at first. Because writing isn’t the problem – it’s blanking on things to write about. Give me a topic and I can write TOMES.
This isn’t about being jealous of someone because their big – I don’t begrudge Augusten his success, and I don’t think that just because he’s successful that means that I can’t be successful. There isn’t a limited amount of success in the world, and his success doesn’t take away anything from the available pool. And I don’t want to be an alcoholic, and I’m HAPPY that he’s sober and dry and made an amazing work of it, okay? I AM. I’m not that small. Yet.
But today, I am a little small. Tiny, in fact. And in need of a martini. And also PMSing. And if I keep up on the martini binge, I won’t have much to complain about, because I will be bloated, eating large vats of McDonald’s and drinking heeee0YOOOGE martinis and I’ll be writing a book about how I had to go to rehab and fat camp all in one fell swoop. But the PMS, man. I’m hoping – praying, in fact – explains the pinhead, tiny nature of my incredibly tiny, bitchy, selfish existence on this almost-Tuesday.
*Madonna. And seriously, who is this bitch sitting in my skin? And really, I mean this post somewhat tongue-in-cheek, so if you’re feeling defensive about alcoholism and feel like getting on my case about it? Please don’t.
April 17th, 2006
I’ve started The Diet. I mean, no one likes to talk about it, right? But we all do it. I’d like to pretend that it’s for health reasons, or it’s because I’m not worried about how I look, but that’s not entirely true. I mean, it’s partially true, but the bottom line is simply this: I want to fit into my old pants. Period. Not because I want to wear my old pants, because, let’s face it, some of them haven’t been whipped out since the low-rise revolution took shape, or worse, they were purchased at the peak of the low-rise revolution and as such, barely rise above the pubic hair line. And after I lost all of the thyroid weight, I got a little lazy, and found myself eating through large piles of cheeseburgers because suddenly? I COULD. I HAD A FULL FUNCTIONING THYROID, CALORIES, SO SUCK IT.
And then, the cheeseburgers caught up with me, chasing after me and leaping onto my ass like velcro. Plus, my thyroid broke again, which renders me in need of a needle aspiration biopsy kind of thing where they plan to stick a giant needle – like, a giant giant heeyooge needle the size of the Chrysler building – into my neck to pull out some fluid from the giant cysts sitting on my thyroid. I’m not that scared, since it’s so unlikely that it’s anything, but A GIANT NEEDLE? Right. That is scary.
But anyway, the diet really isn’t the point. The point is, since The Diet, not only have I been eating lots of soup, as Whinge promised I would, but I am dining each day at the local health food store that’s next to my office. And really? I’m uncomfortable in health food stores. I can’t handle the crunchiness, for I will never be as crunchy as they are. It doesn’t matter how much hemp I wear (none), or how much Grateful Dead or Jack Johnson I listen to (very little), I will never get excited about millet flour, nor will I ever say, “The TOXINS, man. It’s the TOXINS. Dude, you SO need a shot of wheatgrass. It’ll clean you RIGHT OUT.” I want to, but I can’t. It’s FLOUR. Or wheatgrass. Gross. And I don’t even know what millet is. And sunflower sprouts are lovely, but really? WHY? Alfalfa sprouts seem fine, thanks. Despite repeated visits, I’m irked every time I leave the store, wondering how I’ve been duped into spending $7 on a bag of organic sprouted wheat chips flavored with sea salt from a sacred sea in an exotic, blessed location.
But that doesn’t stop me from going there for lunch every day for a veggie melt and a side of veggie soup because secretly, I believe some of this shit. And what’s worse? As I’m munching down, I feel somehow superior because I ATE ORGANIC TODAY, and what did you eat, suckah? Subway? I LAUGH AT SUBWAY. I smile beatifically as I order my melt and soup with organic cheese please, oh, and can I please have extra sunflower sprouts? Because I am organic and healthy and shit. And sunflower sprouts CURE DISEASE.
And constipation, apparently, for if “cleansing toxins” means “living in the bathroom,” then I AM FREE OF ALL TOXINS. UNCLE.
April 13th, 2006
I’m not a jealous person, for the most part, and neither is Adam. I don’t understand women who get yanked out about who their husbands or boyfriends are talking to/working with/whatever, and I’m so thankful that he feels the same way. What a colossal waste of time and energy.
I do, however, occasionally have dreams that he is gay (I promise you, he is not) and therefore leaving me for some guy named Stan, leaving me alone and utterly helpless to change his mind because really, if he’s gay, he’s GAY. I cannot help him, because I do not have a penis and I am, therefore, completely hosed. I suppose it’s my subconscious way of fucking with myself, because deep down, it knows I’m not jealous and if it was any other way then it wouldn’t be a bad dream now, would it? And I think It knows that is the ONLY WAY to render me completely helpless and terrified, because I can’t compete. I usually wake up crying and upset with him for the rest of the day, because STAN has totally come between us, and WHY didn’t you figure this out earlier, you giant asshat? I LOVE YOU AND YOU LOVE STAN. The unfairness of it all leaves me weepy for an entire day.
Life is so totally unfair.
Anyway, last night, I had this insane dream that actually upset me, and all day today I’ve been angry at this poor person (actually two people) who exists, but I do not even know, and mad at Adam for sleeping with her, and even MADDER at him for apparently thinking we had an open marriage when, although we aren’t jealous types, WE SO DO NOT HAVE AN OPEN MARRIAGE.
The hussy in question is Mighty Girl, aka Margaret Mason. Last night, she and Heather Champ and I all became friends while kiteboarding on a nearby beach, and then we all decided to get an apartment so we could kiteboard even more, and the next thing I knew, I woke up the next day in my new apartment with my new friends, and MightyGirl was all, “I had sex with Husband, bitch!” and I was all, “Liar!” and Adam was all, “No really, we did! You said it was okay to flirt and be open and I thought, why not now?” and I was all, “I AM GOING TO KILL YOU BOTH!” and then Heather stepped in and told me I was being completely unreasonable and really, dude, I should just chill out. And then MightyGirl’s husband showed up (played by himself, oddly. It really was B-May), and I told him about the hussiness, and he was all, “Jonniker, dude, RELAX! I’m cool with it!” and then I ran out of the house crying, because I WAS NOT COOL WITH IT, and then I woke up.
Right. Well, this is amusing for several reasons. 1) I don’t really read MightyGirl or Heather Champ on a super-regular basis, so how and why did they show up in my dream? Why bloggers, why now? Why not Whinger or Amalah or Jamie or someone I actually read regularly? Or even better, someone I actually know? I believe this demonstrates the depths to which the elderly population is sinking into my psyche, because I can’t think of a single real-life hot woman under the age of 70 in the entire state. 2) I am suddenly filled with extraordinary vitriol for MightyGirl, and this is totally, hilariously stupid, because DUH, it’s Abe’s fault, too. And, um, the first time I’ve ever been jealous of a human being and it’s practically a fictitious person in a fictitious situation, and for what it’s worth, MightyGirl seems NICE AND NORMAL and not at all like the type of hussy who’ll screw your husband and then give ‘tude. And, I’m mad at Heather, too, for just standing there and letting her friend totally huss out on my husband.
Like, furious. At everyone.
I can’t help but wonder aloud: Could this be PMS-related?
*Wham, of course.
April 11th, 2006
So, I vowed to write more. Whee! Write more! Utter good intentions! HURRAH!
And I will. But the thing is, I am a dumb fuck, for about 1,000,000 reasons, but let’s start with this one:
I let Dr. Poland talk me into the Sleep you Down medication on Thursday, because I am a huge sucker and a giant dumbass. A GIANT DUMBASS. Can you say dumbass? I knew you could. He convinced me because he claimed it would augment my Buspar, and by the way, I’m doing FINE, anxiety-wise, so why on earth did I think I needed this? This mood stabilizer, when I’m already more stable than I’ve been in years? CAN YOU SAY DUMBASS? I am a doctor’s wet dream.
I mean, I write all about the overmedicating of America, and then I willingly sign up as a happy, stupid, completely duped participant who is actually taking medication for an off-label purpose because Dr. StrangeO PolandO says it’s a good idea. This is the same man who wants to give me a mysterious skin cream that some people think is “dangerous” and so it is only prescribed at a select few (one) pharmacy in the entire town. And blithely hands off schizophrenia meds to help me sleep. Or change my “sleep architecture,” whatever in the world that is.
Really. I’m not that bright. I’m pretty sure this is some kind of undercover expose to see how stupid patients can be, and what they’ll be duped into taking just because they’re doctor says so. I can’t WAIT to hear Diane Sawyer’s questions:
“So at no point did you wonder, ‘why is he doing this to me?’ You just blindly TOOK DANGEROUS MEDICATION?” She’ll ask in that mildly incredulous tone.
Yes. Yes, I am that dumb. I wondered, then was talked into it, then unwondered, then FREAKED OUT.
I feel like I’m on another planet. I can’t focus. It takes me hours to complete simple tasks, such as answering the phone, getting the leash on the dog and putting dishes in the dishwasher. I can’t shower in the morning because I can’t move quickly enough to get it done in time. I’m dirty. I mean, I’m pretty scary looking. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and, well, GAH. I mean, really – I can’t finish a simple sentence, and I work more than 10 or 12 hours a day at a job that usually takes me less than 7 on a really hard day. Sunny’s behavior is at an all-time low and all I can do is look at her while she chews my pants off, tries to gnaw my earlobe off and eat my nose because I’m…drugged. Like I’ve OD’d on Klonopin or something equally dulling (I’m not on Klonopin…). I just stand there, stupified, but happily out of it, like a psych ward patient on a high dose of thorazine. I might as well start drooling, and believe me, I’ve come close. Get me a faded robe and slippers and a paper cup. Nurse Cratchit is coming.
I owe people emails and phone calls (you know who you are), and I want so badly to call you back and email you, but I’m scared that I will come out like A GIANT DUMBASS. Or worse, like a slurring freak who can’t form sentences.
Oh and I can’t go off it immediately, although please God, I am DYING. Why? Oh, because its original use is to combat seizures, and immediate withdrawal can actually *cause* seizures, even in people who never had them before. And thank you, Dr. Poland, for not telling me this and MAKING ME READ IT ON THE INTERNET while I’m realizing what a huge fog I am in, as I climb through piles of syrup. So tomorrow, I could be a seizing, drooling catatonic fool in a robe and slippers. Maybe by then he’ll have called me back.
I am a dumbass. I KNOW. I AM A DUMBASS.
April 5th, 2006