Summer Words #2

This isn't a cry for help, just more of a invitation to listen to me vent through the absurdities of what has become my everyday life:


I was warned by my psychiatrist when I started taking Zoloft that I'd become something akin to a Dementor. (Those aren't his words; they're mine.) And I think he may be right. I've spent the majority of the last couple of days walking around my house wrapped in a blanket. The menacing effect usually associated with the presence of a cloaked figure is reduced to nothing, however, due to the fact that the blanket I've been cloaked in is polk-a-dotted in teddy bears.


I have become, as the Lindsay-Lohan-possessed-Jamie-Lee-Curtis of Freaky Friday so aptly puts it, a "funsucker." I have become increasingly blunt with everyone, and have retreated to the corners of my house to escape contact with anyone in my neighborhood. (That doesn't stop me from posting this where those same people can access my inner-most thoughts on the Internet; but hey, I know I'm hypocritical.)


I also feel like God has been speaking to me through Oprah Winfrey and Vogue. This has nothing to do with being a Dementor; it's merely a strange fact. I'm adding Miss Winfrey and the holy pages of Vogue to my non-existent list of mystic resources.


Honestly and most truly, though: I feel like crap. I get cheeky and weird when I feel like crap.


On the top of my list of To Do's is this melodramatic-sounding task: survive. I'm no Bear Grylls, thankfully (I believe the man to have a not-so-secret desire to be naked on camera in nature. ), so I don't think the task to be to difficult to achieve, but there it is. 


Have you ever read the poems of Charles Baudelaire before? I certainly hadn't, until I got one of those little poetry books from that public brothel of books, the library. I'm kind of stuck on The Albatross right now. Lovely, sad little poem.

...


Oh, yeah, now I remember what I was going to say about it. One thing I am feeling pretty good about is shedding some narcissism. I am the first to admit that I'm in love with myself, and that I hate myself too. I feel like I am a gaggle of bratty high school cheerleaders on the inside, complete with that ugly one that the other cheerleaders keep around so they feel better about themselves. I'm not sure what's triggered  this "shedding," if you will, other than my utter lack of motivation to do things. But I'm starting to understand more fully that the individuality that I feel isn't unique to me. Everyone feels unique; it's like The Incredibles. "Saying everyone is special is the same as saying no one is," or something like that. It's not really a sad thought; it's actually quite comforting. Our perceived uniqueness, like our imperfections, are common ground. We all have it, so we're all human.


 Right now, I just kind of want to exist and drift. Oh, and nap. Where's my teddy bear blanket?