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.

Bah, Humbug, Ken Kesey, Hmm

IS there love in the world? Does Tom Cruise have big shiny white Hollywood teeth?? There is, my dear ones, there is! Even if in my entire 34 years it has yet to find me! Yet, don't let my sad stories deter you from seeking out your happiness.

I recently spent a number of days in the hospital. Yes, the One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest variety. And there is very little to say about this other than that A. it was needed B. I am depressed, not crazy, and is anyone TRULY crazy besides power-hungry Republicans and that one guy on the corner who keeps asking you to talk to his invisible friend? (I would actually advise that he has an alternate reality, really, just to be fair!) and that C. I am now on anti-depressants. Not to mention I fell in love with the young, hunky doctor who was my case manager (and you know, folks, God is cruel, just to stick me with THAT unsolvable conundrum when I am feeling my utter lowest. Plus, it's not fair that they hire shrinks who are attractive -- I assumed they'd all be old and crotchety, or young, dynamic fresh out of grad school types. I mean, dynamic, but not HOT, you know what I'm saying here, people?). Anyway, so it goes.

So life is very, very, very strange, and I am feeling very, very odd, and have about 18,000 things to do to jump-start my life, including finding permanent safe housing and, like, a job. Which is much easier when you are not huddled in a rented room contemplating suicide while a scary woman keeps banging doors. But, I digress!

The only problem with the meds is that I am now having to pee every six seconds. I am hoping this is a temporary, not long-term, issue, as it is getting damned annoying. I also need to eat something, as I am currently starving, which makes me type that much faster.

Ah! Life! We love you, we revere you, we beg for safe harbor in a choppy, choppy world!

May all your days be merry. And may we all find just a little bit of that elusive thing called freedom.

Tears in the carpet, stains on your soul

Changed my mind about the antidepressants and have gone straight to heroin, much like straight to video. Ah, I'm joking, people, needles scare me worse than Dick Cheney's huge shiny bald dome.

Anywho, the biatch from hell i.e. the landlady had the nerve to charge me for a "tear in the carpet" (cheap-ass ugly fucking thing that was already shot to hell about fifteen years back) and to charge me for a new pillow because there was a "red stain on it." Indeed, it was my fault, and the fact that she is this anal should not be surprising. Yet, it still is. She also wanted to know about her bedsheet, which I accidentally ripped, then replaced. She will get that information when hell freezes over. Out of sight, out of mind, dear sweet ones!

I was trolling the craigslist, kind of the way you do when you're online and need another place to stay fast, and saw another room for rent. The dear woman stated that "If you call me after 8pm, your chances of getting the room will be shot." I think she had this in all caps. Are all women renting rooms in their houses motherfuckers? Apparently yes!

Which is why I eat potato chips and dip and pray for sweet oblivion.

I hope your Father's Day (greeting card companies are geniuses, no?) was a happy one. My father was sort of like the one you see in bad TV movies about girls who end up in juvenile hall, but don't let that stop you from having a better one then I did. It made me who I am today, a blogger with only a minimal chip on her shoulder.

And boy, am I cute.

God bless.

I Am Gone

I have left the lady from hell's house, and here is hoping that I can get, just maybe, a decent night's sleep. Moving, of course, devoutly sucks, but what doesn't, I ask you?

I am now baby-sitting my younger brother, one geriatric dog, and hoping that the Next Step will present itself in due course. My parents, luckily, are gone for a week, and I have plenty of time to nurse my bent back, wounded emotions, and take care of a few pressing details. One of which involves the next step, another antidepressants, and hopefully receiving the deposit from fair Cruella very soon. If she doesn't send it soon, it ain't gonna be pretty.

So that's my life, folks! Ah, worry worry worry. Where would we be without fucking worry?

May all your days be as graceful as swans floating on a silver lake, surrounded by hippos wearing tutus. Fantasia was something else, wasn't it?