So I slept on it. I've finally got some sleep. My insomnia has been killing me. That's another thing that my doctor's can't solve: why I have insomnia. My melatonin seems normal, and two sleep studies have just shone that I couldn't sleep right. An MRI showed no abnormalities. Thank God for health insurance.
Anyway, I don't quite remember what I typed the other day. My psychosis has been giving me hell. I have been tripping BALLS all day on this "being crazy" $#%^. And then I was tripping balls on some other $#%^. That made me decide to write a little short story about my day. I am not too good at writing, no matter how much I try to be good at it. I used to be good. Now I just write crap. I guess all writers must think of their work as crap. [I realized that my writing was divulging from the topic there and stopped. That's just part of the disease, I guess.]
Here it is, a slightly comedic account of my last weekend. Contains language and the use of drugs and alcohol. I couldn't get the links to work properly, so I put links beside the topic.
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I am sitting here in my room. It is getting late. An empty bottle of zinfandel in my hand. Zinfandel? What am I, a liberal arts student?
"You are a liberal arts, student," says the hallucination in my head. Today it is a female, a prudish woman that sounds like that one bitch everyone seems to have had for a teacher in middle school. Nagging bitch.
"Shut up bitch," I say to the voice. I guess I also said it to nothing, but it is all about perspective here.
Whatever. Bitch. But wait...how in the hell did I get this zinfandel? And where did this fresh pack of Marlboro's come from? And where did...this illustrious bag of dank come from!
It was true. I had a gram and a half of really good chronic, and I had no idea where it came from. It was like manna from heaven. But what the ###$ just happened? How did I get this $#%^? Where am I?
"You are obviously at your house, idiot," says that bitch. I think I will just call her Stacy from now on.
I stood up and walked out of my room. The first thing I see after passing the bathroom is the kitchen, and there is an empty handle of Captain Morgan sitting on the counter, shaming me for defiling its contents.
"Why don't I have a hangover?", I say out loud to no one in particular.
"Because you are an alcoholic." says the voice.
"You got that right, sugar," I reply after I chug down a half a Dixie cup worth of rum and coke that has been sitting out all night.
I'm not really an alcoholic. I just like a good drink every now and then. I like a good party here and again. You certainly can't blame a man for that.
"I heard that. I can hear your thoughts. Yes, you are a ######6 boozer."
Shut up, c***.
I whip out my phone and start playing a tap game. I have no idea what I'm doing.
"You are are so ###$ up."
"I know."
Suddenly, it hit me: I still had that weed! But where did I get it? I reach for my phone to make some calls, but I remembered what had happened last night, all in a flash. One of my old buds called me up, even though my phone says that the last time we spoke before then was on August 2nd, and that was about a month and a half ago. He was concerned about how I was doing, as he knows a bit about my disorder and hadn't spoken to me in a while. I had changed. I stopped talking to people because I was never invited back to parties. See, my ex-girlfriend of 1-year decided to stop inviting me to parties, even though we broke up on relatively good terms. All of my friends go there to hang out because it is one of the few places where they can get drunk without their parents caring or having to drive 15 miles.
I was devastated, and all of my old depression problems started flooding back: cutting, suicidal thoughts, no hope in anything, anger, hating myself, and feeling detached from my body. But - to get back on track - this one guy...
[ Continued ]