(no subject)
By the way, don't anybody take Cymbalta at 12:30AM. You'll be up by 6 feeling like you've been shot out of a pleasant mood cannon, and you'll want to talk a lot.
So yeah, went back to my old doctor yesterday, who has suddenly become no less than a saint. She validated the whole "don't have a sucky therapist" idea and prescribed the Cymbalta and more Klonopin so I can stop being so miserable and keyed up on a daily basis. Sadly, I'm no longer entitled to in-county rates (which means 100% s-s-s-self pay, dammit) but if I can wake up feeling good after fewer than 10 hours of sleep, it's worth it. Actually, even if I do fall asleep for 10 hours, chances are I'll wake up feeling good. It's not going to get rid of my horrible sleep apnea or anything, but, what the fuck! I'm in a good mood!
Oh yeah and, I know I'm technically not supposed to do this (it's in the rules), but this is the beginning of my "novel"...err...50,000 word document. The whole work is actually so bad that just these first few paragraphs explain the whole thing, because it's pretty awful.
I had been running for nearly two minutes when I decided to stop. Nobody would have any reason to believe that I was innocent, so I decided to quit bolting away from the scene of the attack. The heart attack, I mean. If anyone had seen me running, as I’m sure they had, they would have noticed that my trajectory was aiming away from my squatter’s rights tenement and into the center of the Union Street young professionals throng. The strange thing is that nobody looked.
I paused outside of Kathy’s Tapas Menu and watched the patrons inside as they enjoyed their strangely arranged mozzarella sticks served with coleslaw for $12.95, and left the front window casually when I noticed the brother of Charles F. Glefford enjoying a glass of brown alcohol. If only he had seen me, waved me inside, and said, “hey, have you seen my brother with whom I know you are having an affair, and could you tell him I said ‘go fuck yourself’ please, and here, have something for your trouble” then nothing would have happened. Why could I have not stopped there?
I continued down Union and turned the corner at Gilliam, looking for some sort of bus to hide in. I had at least been wise enough to remove the parts of his wallet that would not leave a paper trail, and I felt it my duty to use it as irresponsibly as I could. He would have wanted them to go that way. So I found a bus to take me to more buses, purchased a ticket to get onto one of those buses, and headed a span of time elsewhere to reclaim my old friend’s couch.
I'll keep posting oddly-cropped excerpts until I run out of steam. Until then, everyone suffers.
So yeah, went back to my old doctor yesterday, who has suddenly become no less than a saint. She validated the whole "don't have a sucky therapist" idea and prescribed the Cymbalta and more Klonopin so I can stop being so miserable and keyed up on a daily basis. Sadly, I'm no longer entitled to in-county rates (which means 100% s-s-s-self pay, dammit) but if I can wake up feeling good after fewer than 10 hours of sleep, it's worth it. Actually, even if I do fall asleep for 10 hours, chances are I'll wake up feeling good. It's not going to get rid of my horrible sleep apnea or anything, but, what the fuck! I'm in a good mood!
Oh yeah and, I know I'm technically not supposed to do this (it's in the rules), but this is the beginning of my "novel"...err...50,000 word document. The whole work is actually so bad that just these first few paragraphs explain the whole thing, because it's pretty awful.
I had been running for nearly two minutes when I decided to stop. Nobody would have any reason to believe that I was innocent, so I decided to quit bolting away from the scene of the attack. The heart attack, I mean. If anyone had seen me running, as I’m sure they had, they would have noticed that my trajectory was aiming away from my squatter’s rights tenement and into the center of the Union Street young professionals throng. The strange thing is that nobody looked.
I paused outside of Kathy’s Tapas Menu and watched the patrons inside as they enjoyed their strangely arranged mozzarella sticks served with coleslaw for $12.95, and left the front window casually when I noticed the brother of Charles F. Glefford enjoying a glass of brown alcohol. If only he had seen me, waved me inside, and said, “hey, have you seen my brother with whom I know you are having an affair, and could you tell him I said ‘go fuck yourself’ please, and here, have something for your trouble” then nothing would have happened. Why could I have not stopped there?
I continued down Union and turned the corner at Gilliam, looking for some sort of bus to hide in. I had at least been wise enough to remove the parts of his wallet that would not leave a paper trail, and I felt it my duty to use it as irresponsibly as I could. He would have wanted them to go that way. So I found a bus to take me to more buses, purchased a ticket to get onto one of those buses, and headed a span of time elsewhere to reclaim my old friend’s couch.
I'll keep posting oddly-cropped excerpts until I run out of steam. Until then, everyone suffers.