‘Was it just that I had hurt his feelings?’
That keeps rolling around in my empty head.
He claimed I was manic, then later, after some explaining (it’s quite the story), he acknowledged I wasn’t.
But get this: I’m still certified, so I guess it’s not so easy to be a grown-up in this grown-up world.
I am a little bitter, though I wonder what the point of anything is with a memory that cannot grasp most any speech that’s too fast. It’s a mighty ugly reality, and certainly tries my hope for recovery-of-the-brain.
Then, the big question is, ‘If I’m not manic, why am I still certified?’!
Oh oh! I know! It’s because his feelings got hurt. (The number of caveats I’m omitting would fit on a Christmas tree, but we’ll just ignore that – because I want to be perfectly in the right, and not just a little right.)
Like the fucking guy was pointing to my empty Listerine bottles in the bathroom as evidence!
I’m sorry, but no… They’re there to remind me of how important my teeth are…
Anyways, I felt the desire to write come hell or high water, so here I am writing this shit.
The real trouble is, I know this won’t be something that can sustain itself.
These meds, dude! They really fuck me up!
I keep gravitating to cigarettes because it’s the only thing that I can see myself buying even if it doesn’t solve anything—there’s a chance a smoke session will make me feel like I can game out. They’re so few and far between though.
Plainly, it’s typically just me abusing bupropion to beat the addiction I always end up in.
I get the feeling treating my brain this way isn’t good, but what choice do I have? (Hands up to those of you who can fathom ‘not being able to do anything.’
Yea, that’s me. Always feeling like I can’t fucking do anything. Psychiatric drugs aren’t good, my dude/dudette.
Those fucking cigarettes though, man!
Why can’t they just leave the tobacco alone?
Categories