"How long have I been sleeping? How long have I been drifting alone through the night?"
I am pretty much sick as a dog right now, thank you very goddamn much Mister Quetiapine, alias Monsieur Seroquel. That is to say, I am making another attempt to get off this shit. I slept maybe, maybe four hours last night. And now I'm enjoying the marvels of four nights of shitty sleep, plus the side effects of discontinuation. And trying to work. All at once. Look, Ma! No hands! And yet, I am more awake, more alert, more capable of clear thought - even through this physical misery - than I have been since I started taking this crap full time, almost a year ago. I have slept away a year of my life.
Fuck me.
I pulled into Nazareth, was feelin' about half past dead.
I just need some place where I can lay my head.
"Hey, Mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?"
He just grinned and shook my hand. "No" was all he said. ~ The Band
Yesterday, I wrote the article for Thom Carnell, and I finished with Sirenia Digest #106, which will go out to subscribers as soon as I finish this short entry. Today, I have work I will get done, despite the constant cold sweats, aches, and general wooziness.
It was very strange, and a bit sad, pulling out all those old issues of Carpe Noctem, reading my old music reviews and what not. I suppose I should publish those somewhere someday. Or not. What was weirder, the interview that Thom did with me late in 1996, that was published in 1997. This bizarre snapshot of me almost twenty goddamn years ago, complete with photos by Christa Faust, Billy Martin, and Matthew Grasse. Athens, Los Angeles, Ireland, Niagra Falls.
Last night, I finished reading Theodore Roosevelt's Darkest Journey: The River of Doubt by Candice Millard (2005), along with "The basal titanosaurian Rukwatitan bisepultus (Dinosauria, Sauropoda) from the middle Cretaceous Galula Formation, Rukwa Rift Basin, southwestern Tanzania." Next up, a Robert Aickman binge.
It's annoying how much I actually like Lynard Skynard.
I'm outta here.
Later Taters,
Aunt Beast
Fuck me.
I pulled into Nazareth, was feelin' about half past dead.
I just need some place where I can lay my head.
"Hey, Mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?"
He just grinned and shook my hand. "No" was all he said. ~ The Band
Yesterday, I wrote the article for Thom Carnell, and I finished with Sirenia Digest #106, which will go out to subscribers as soon as I finish this short entry. Today, I have work I will get done, despite the constant cold sweats, aches, and general wooziness.
It was very strange, and a bit sad, pulling out all those old issues of Carpe Noctem, reading my old music reviews and what not. I suppose I should publish those somewhere someday. Or not. What was weirder, the interview that Thom did with me late in 1996, that was published in 1997. This bizarre snapshot of me almost twenty goddamn years ago, complete with photos by Christa Faust, Billy Martin, and Matthew Grasse. Athens, Los Angeles, Ireland, Niagra Falls.
Last night, I finished reading Theodore Roosevelt's Darkest Journey: The River of Doubt by Candice Millard (2005), along with "The basal titanosaurian Rukwatitan bisepultus (Dinosauria, Sauropoda) from the middle Cretaceous Galula Formation, Rukwa Rift Basin, southwestern Tanzania." Next up, a Robert Aickman binge.
It's annoying how much I actually like Lynard Skynard.
I'm outta here.
Later Taters,
Aunt Beast