...bangs its' head against the bars of its' fucking cage until its' brain hemorrhages. It's because its' in fucking therapy, that's why, and its' being frog-walked into looking at things inside its' head that give it the Screamin' Willies and its' doctor WON'T LET IT HAVE ITS' FUCKING MORPHINE, DAMMIT...
How am I supposed to deal with shit if I don't have a way to get away from dealing with that shit? Tell me that, Stephanie...and please don't tell me to continue taking my trazodone because all that does is make me feel like I'm wading through thick liquid, inside and out.
Okay... I think the tantrum is over. For now...
Since neither one of them - the shrink or my doc - have told me to quit smoking pot, I guess I'll have to become a chronic with the chronic. I'll fit in with the Park People, at least, and we can all sit around staring at our fingers and chewing our hair. Maybe I can commune with the squirrels, become the Squirrel Whisperer...god knows if I smoke enough pot I could convince myself that I understand the little rodents...
I am antsy and pissy today. Antsy and pissy and directionless. Maybe it's time to go to the monastery and sit in the garden, center my antsy, pissy, directionless ass a little bit...
Bleh.
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