Mostly Nonsense

Here we are on Sunset and Camden! Unlike Debbie Reynolds, who danced her way to fame with a perky, cute smile remotely resembling that of a lapdog's, I am feeling somewhat blah. Despite my long-term supply of generic Wellbutrin and enough encouragement from well-meaning friends, alas and alack, I must still come to you, my gentle reader, to feel OK. Because you mean so much to me -- ooh, ooh. That's from some song by Lionel Richie. I think.

Anywho, it's hot as hell and I am busy applying for jobs, trying to keep a roof over my head, and eating a somewhat haphazard diet. I'm walking a lot, but devoid of my multivitamins, which I need to procure at some point. I am, however, drinking the green tea again! Green tea, ah, very good. Yes, indeedy. This is the portion of the program where I realize that I am completely insane.

There is really nothing significant to say other than I cannot stop thinking about my hunky doctor and life can really turn on a dime. This morning I drank my coffee and realized that the Wellbutrin was starting to kick in big-time. I almost felt normal, folks! That's a wee bit scary, what can I say. I also pondered the strange karmic jungle that is the universe when people like Nicole Richie and Jeff Goldblum hook up. Hmm. One tends to wonder. Not only does she weigh as much as his left thigh muscle, but he is probably almost 30 years older than she is. I am guessing at least 25. Am I the only one bothered here?

So, there we are. I now leave you to your own devices as I brave my way back into the universe. It's a struggle, people. It's a long-ass struggle.

But I know we'll all make it if we hold hands and take our Wellbutrin.

From Russia, with love.

Usual Shite

I wonder if I have any readers left, eh? I also wonder if and when I die if my genius will finally be exposed posthumously and I will finally get the accolades I have been searching for, all my weary life! Alas and alack, it might not be.

Yes yes, I'm mostly kidding, egotistical creature that I am!

Today I am back in my wretched hometown, watching people answer cellphones and still pining like the sick fiend I am for my doctor. Who has apparently moved to a land far, far, far away from here. This is of course profoundly sad, but it also reminds me that I need to enter the realm of, say, reality at some point during my existence. I have already been humbled to Jobian proportions but hey, what's life without constant humiliation?

Outside we are awaiting another storm. It's humid here in New England, and there is a general sense of anxious malaise hanging in the air. Yesterday at my new temporary abode I listened to a sad genius of a handyman expound on global warming for about a half hour. Crazy folk come to me, recognizing their own; this guy is obviously smart as hell but somehow lost the boat. There are so many of these folks in the world -- brilliant people who somehow got railroaded out of their fair share and who now fix pipes and expound. To anyone who will listen! That would be me, sweetpea. Anywho, part two of his lecture will consist of stuff about the world of fossil fuels. I actually found it utterly fascinating.

It is time for me to go pick up my antidepressants so I can antidepressant my way through the rest of the day. Thank you for tolerating me, thank you for listening, and if you're ever down, remember that somewhere out there, some kid is holding a balloon, flying a kite, or eating an ice-cream cone for the very first time.

Maudlin? Nah.

Fare thee well. And remember: tomorrow is another day.

George Bush, Charles Dickens, Rocket Men In Space Dying Slow

Is there anything to say when you are halfway to madness? Other than, hey, where's the rubber room? It is a scorchingly hot day here in New England and I have vowed that this is the last time I return to my hometown for anything whatsoever. I am temporarily living in the neighboring city, which is a much more pleasant place to be. Here I feel incredibly, intensely self-conscious, and get weary of counting yuppies on cellphones driving in SUV's with sunstreaked hair right out of the salon. You see how it is when you're me! And I lack sunstreaked hair, alas.

I have also long pondered the impatience of the northeastern region -- if you are looking for a slow paced, understanding type of gang, for Godsakes hike it back to wherever you came from. You're lucky around here if they are willing to wait thirty seconds for you to count out your change. But, it could be worse. I could be in that Ray Bradbury story where the rocket ship explodes, all the members of the rocket ship are left to float in space, and they each die, slowly and painfully, as the atmospheric pressure rips off their body parts. It's a helluva story, actually! You see how it is when you're Ray Bradbury.

Anyway, all that aside, why haven't we seen Suri Cruise? Is anyone else wondering this? DOES this baby exist? Stay tuned. I also spent last evening watching Larry King Live with a very intense possibly lesbian (not that I give a shit) Italian woman who writes for a Spanish magazine. We ended up having a fine conversation about life and religion, and entertained ourselves by musing on Bush's complete lack of skill with the English language. He seemed a bit more with it this time, although most of the time he looked like he was desperately foraging for anything remotely coherent to say. Laura Bush just sat serenely, like she'd just had the greatest colon cleansing of her life. All in all it was a most entertaining spectacle. I still don't understand why we invaded Iraq, and I still think Bush is happiest on his ranch. Riding horses and reading Dickens. You see how it is when you're an intellectual!

Ah, sarcasm. The joyous joys. Life here is a struggle, my friends. Hard and tough and very unstable, but I return to you to make some sort of sense of all this bullshit. And the Wellbutrin is my friend. Ah, indeed.

May all your days be merry.

Whiplash of Shame, My Hunky Doctor, Or So They Say

And here we are, my children. I am once again back on the reality train, and trying hard to get my life together. Which is kind of like trying to make a souffle repeatedly, then having it fall flat. However, the world being the bizarre yet incredibly amusing farce that it is makes it all the easier not to go completely insane. Because there's always something to laugh at! Yourself for starters, although that's easier said than done, or so they say.

Speaking of Or So They Say, which sounds like the offspring of a very grammatically correct Native American from the tribe of Wampampet (yes, I made that up), I was accosted recently by a gentleman on the street who said that he had been stung by the "biggest bumblebee" he had ever seen. People routinely share these joyous tid-bits with me, and I simply listened, as I have the feeling I will do for the rest of my natural-born life, as I am thinking of going into the counseling field. I will also eventually publish my book and, if God is good, be able to secure my guitar once again, as I am sorely missing it. I need the guitar to feel in balance -- you musician types out there understand!

I am also reeling from shame, as I recently called a doctor(as in, psychologist -- remember, I am a traumatized yet oh so lovely human being who is recently coming out of a protracted crisis.) I called said doctor because I was intensely suicidal at the time. Problem is, I called him at home, and that's kind of an inappropriate no-no in this situation (long story, no time!) So, I was taken to task by another doctor (cold-ass British woman with a face like a stone's) about this, and was left to feel as though shame is the coat some of us are forced to wear forever. But, that's OK, because when I make my millions I will also wear Prada and, occasionally, excess dog hair, as I plan to buy at least three of them! Ah, pets. Or, rescue the sad-eyed ones from shelters and go home feeling incredibly virtous. You know how it goes when you're halfway to martyrdom.

Anyway, that's over and done with, and I will never see this doctor again as he is apparently moving out of the state. Of course, I will run into him at a cocktail party when I am feeling incredibly low and will immediately blush, but I've always been too hard on myself. I also had, I must confess, a bit of a crush on him, but that's OK too, because many of us are susceptible to the General Hospital scenario pumped out by soap operas since the beginning of time. You know, helpless hurting woman, kind strong manly doctor. It's a recipe for either scorching hot sex or, in this case, the whiplash of shame. Which I now remove, because life is hard enough.

Or So They Say. And that's all I have to say about that, just like good ol'Forrest Gump.

Not much else going on here. It's a hot day here in Ye Olde New England. I need to eat and continue on with a variety of less than pleasant tasks. I am also on the rag, which makes me feel like I can fly. Antidepressants also help with this, I have found, and I have not taken mine today.

I wish you many doctors, yet as little shame as possible.

Or So They Say.