Sertraline

Anxiety with depression is what the doctor said and prescribed me sertraline. Turns out the side effects are making me worse by a fair few miles but luckily, it’ll apparently only be for a week or so. In the mean time I can live life like Charlie from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, tweaking from one moment to the next it’s the fucked-up adventure I’ve been dying for. In my quest to have a sunnier disposition I’ve signed myself up for at least six months of altering my brain chemistry which will be six months of learning to be careful for what I wish for.

I realise that it’s been a while since I wrote anything worth posting, the rest is just patch work fictional universes scribbled in notebooks. Unfortunately, it’s just furthering the image of the scuzzy weirdo in every mystery movie that I’ve got going right now. Who knows, by the end of the week I’ll be so panicked by my own shadow that I create a Thomas Cole style epic out of the my now very water bowel movement depicting something borne of Lovecraft. The isolation of my room is definitely self-inflicted – as is this whole situation as a matter of fact considering my own brain is working against me – but it’s been a peaceful few days.

It’s incredible how little things really change if you just remove yourself from the situation. It’s an eye opener, a feat of the universal imperative that despite the individual, things just keep spinning. Every so often I get a text about how some one’s been a twat or a reminder of new Netflix series that’s just been released. It’s the same relentless shit the world over whether we’re a part of it or not. That argument falls apart when you’re someone like Donald Trump or I don’t know, someone whose existence is worth while like people trying to cure cancer. What about God? What would happen if God just took their hands of the wheel, would we even know? I’m not even sure if there was ever someone driving. We’re just hurtling down the highway of galactic history in this out of control stagecoach trying not to shit ourselves.

But what the fuck do I know? I’m just a twenty-year-old on SSRI medication just so I can see through my final year of university without going feral. Personally, I think of myself as being a little bit pathetic, I mean I’ve got so much privilege that I don’t know what to do with it. A cosmic ‘fuck you’ to balance the score? Like I said, I have no idea, I’ll just keep on winging it and hoping on keeping it together. It’s the most any of us can.

Sertraline

Musing

Fun fact: people are fickle as shit. I’m not innocent just yesterday I was dead set on quitting my job and was full of piss and vinegar then I had a few drinks and a quick chat with a co-worker about DC lore and now, well… my shift starts at nine tonight. It’s the constant stream of crisis that made me want to quit my job at the bar. At any one time, a staff member is in meltdown or a customer is dishing out empty threats – and then try to force their way back in to ‘apologise’, okay fuck-face, sure.

I probably should quit but there’s always tomorrow for that.

In other related news, I’m reading this great book right now which is strange for me as I barely ever describe something as great if not related to fucking or cheesecake, and I read even less. It’s A City Dreaming by Daniel Polansky. As of right now, reading that and getting wasted on Corpse Revivers is the only thing giving me encouragement to stay out of my bed. Absinthe and my bed have a lot in common actually. They both make me feel warm and fuzzy and I get to avoid difficult questions and neurotics from projecting their shit at me. I have to say, that book is excellent, I do recommend it and wish my life was anything close to as interesting as the protagonist’s. Arguably it’s as dysfunctional and just as alcohol, sex, and coffee orientated – which by the way, Mother, isn’t a bad thing at all, I’m having a good time or at least seem like I am.

This post will unfortunately be a short one, I’ve yet to have a morning black coffee and as I’m so easily distracted, once I close the document, I seldom open it up again. You really know your life is in a sorry state of affairs when your own words start to bore you. Maybe I should mix it up for you, the reader, by throwing in a random FUCK for dramatic effect.

 Note to self: engage in more booze fuelled hijinks for better anecdotes.

Musing

Pickle

My brain is doing a nice thing again where it won’t allow me to sleep until it’s literally impossible for me to open my eyes. It’s the inability to switch off that’s doing it, something in my capacity as an unqualified non-expert I’ve identified as the fault of society somehow. Netlflix culture? Piers Morgan perhaps? His reputation can survive the hit of being the cause of insomnia world wide as well as being an arsehole. On the positive, I did make friends with a lost cat last night at 3 AM, one I named Pickle for the sake that her demeanour demonstrated that she was in a pickle. Christ, I need to develop a better sense of humour – note to self.

The other side of this meant that today in particular I was snappy with people for seemingly no reason, which while some people may say it’s detrimental to relationships it actual perhaps is a blessing in disguise. Considering the weeks of limited semi-sleep and apparently no end in fucking sight, I’ll have the demeanour and visage of the 12th Doctor by the end of September. Who wants that around them? Wouldn’t it be a far better public service for that element to be removed, no offence to Peter Capaldi – Peter, I still love you. I don’t know why people shit on self-destructive behaviour so much, I mean, I’m not the one going to benefit, it’ll be everyone else. They’ll have an easier time as they won’t have to deal with my baggage and I’ll be less stressed for the same reason. Plus, I get a lot more done when I do things by myself; going to restaurants on your own is much better than going with other people for example, that’s a secret in life I learnt early on that no one will tell you.

So what if I end up alone and depressed like Bojack Horseman with cocaine flecks in my beard and a fridge filled solely with Southern Comfort? That show has great ratings and Will Arnett is a household name somewhere. Alternatively, I could go to Morrisons and get some sleeping tablets to regulate it. If only I could be actually fucking motivated to leave the house other than to get shitfaced.

Chance would be a fine thing.

Pickle