A View From a Corner

I get up full of vim and vigor.

I get a lot of shit done around the room, throwing shit out, washing shit out, cleaning shit out, sweeping shit out, putting shit on, taking shit off, eating shit up, writing shit. I'm doing shit. I'm working on my book most of all, typing away until tired, or have to go somewhere, until I wake up or come back to only get directly on it again. All this work will be for nothing as usual. Who really cares what I put on paper, you know what I mean. I mean you care, you're always there, out there somewhere. Many have been with me from the very beginning, many have come to follow. I thank you.

But a book? With out a book publisher, it's as hard as fucking a Kennedy. I don't know why I keep trying and trying and trying. A friend of mine said that I'm in love with words. That I do it for the words alone. For the joy of writing. So few writers like me make it. They die with tons and tons of manuscripts in their closets. I'll be a shut in doing that shit.

But not today. I get out today and get some rainy, fresh air. What pisses me off the most about this it that I was leaving the house, wearing my poncho and had to take the stairs because something was wrong with the elevator again. Two flights down I notice, looking out of the window, that the rain had stopped. Great. I run upstairs, leave my poncho and then run downstairs.

When I get downstairs, it's raining. Plain and simple. Raining. Fuck it then. I walk between the raindrops, running under an awning here, a bunch of trees there, until I get to the Way, soaking wet anyway.

I ride up to Dr. A.'s office and he has a file cabinet for me to assemble. He has all of the tools necessary to do the job. I jump on it, having to look at an instructional video on the Internet to put the fucker together. But putting it together came to be the easy part. Driving rivets into the son-uv-a-bitch that's a different dicksucking story. This sucker was a fucker. It was like I was wrestling with a metal monster. In the long run I walk away with a cut on my finger that bled like a motherfucker but it was done. The Doc was nice enough to peel me off a little lettuce.

Then I head downtown for the real party. I get to my therapist ten minutes early and she calls me in and the first thing she rings out with is "Mr. Hobobob, you have been missing ALL of your therapy sessions!" That's because I have a social phobia. I'm a shut in now."You're developing this Mr. Hobobob. To fight against it you need to come in for your therapy sessions. Dr. K., and Dr. D. both are asking should we close your case." Close my case? I need my therapy sessions. "Well you're going to have to come in for your therapy sessions." But I can't I'm a shut in. "Well, to fight against that you have to come in or we will close your case." So of course, you know how my mind works. I already see an Abbott and Costello loop of logic here. You can't close my case, I say to her. I need my therapy sessions. I have social phobia. "Well you have to come in to fight against it." But I can't, I'm a shut in. We go back and forth like this, and can you believe that she doesn't even pick it up, and I don't let her in on the joke. Because, in a way, it really wasn't funny. These fuckers were planning on slitting my throat.

Next party favor. "Why are you coming off the LUVOX? This is helping you with your social phobia?" It was, I have to admit, I don't like the sexual side effects. "What are you talking about? You don't have a sex life." OH now you had to go there bitch! I didn't say that, of course, I thought that. What I did say was: That doesn't matter I miss my ERECTIONS and my MOJO. I'm still not up to top speed like I used to be. "Well, I know that this is a big world," she says. "And I'm not new to the sexual urges of people. I mean we all masturbate, but that is no reason to put aside the LUVOX." Masturbation? Masturbation? Where is this chick coming from? I had to lay down the law. Look, like I said, I am TOO YOUNG to be impotent. There's a lot of time for that in the far flung future. As for the here and now. I don't want a drug that effects my joint or my MOJO. Understand? Do I need to repeat myself?

Besides, YOU told me that i can stop taking it at any time. "Yes. I said that, but not without talking to me first." (WHAT? Now you're lying. I know exactly what you said) I said: Now look, this is MY body, and I get to make all of the big choices. All you get to do is give me options. So now. What are my options? Now this pisses this kickback taker off. OH COME ON, you know she gets those kickbacks from pharmaceutical companies to push their shit on her patients. The expensive vacations, the lavish dining, so on, so forth. This is one patient that is not going on her experimental drug just so that she can get enough points for the washer and dryer in the catalog!!

Like I said, my comment pisses her off. NO, she doesn't have anything that she can give me to work on my social phobia. (get the fuck out of here) Look, you are the professional. You are supposed to know this stuff up and down, now give me my options (I fucking hate it when smart people gush about how much they know in their related field, and then when there is something that they don't want to do, suddenly they go fucking stupid). Well we can up your ABILIFY. Whoa, wait a minute, I tell her, ABILIFY is for delusional visions...it's for my alcoholic dementia. "It also works on social phobias." (if it did that you psycho, you would have upped it a long time ago) NO, try again. She sighs. I'm being a dickhead to her of course, but why am I the one medicating myself? Are you THAT pissed off that I'm not your guinea pig that now I have to pull fucking teeth? Up my LYRICA, I tell her, I seem to have no problems with that. No crazy side effects. She scribbles down the change. I'm up to three shots of LYRICA daily.

You wonder why I don't go back to self medicating myself with alcohol. I leave her office as pissed off as a bag full of molested bees. Fuck this. I'm glad I'm off the LUVOX. And I'm going to seriously consider finding a new psychiatrist, to see if they agree with my medications. I don't need bitchiness deciding on my medications.

I'll do it myself if I have to. Trust me, I can you know. And it won't be pretty.

Hobobob