The Meter Rolls Over/ As Good As It Gets


I haven't done my math homework but I had pie today because it is Pi day. I know you know what it is, but in case you don't want to have to Google it again it's 3.14 which means you have pie as a chubby little math nerd.


I had intended to write this post quite some time ago because I was excited to see I was approaching my 1000th view! So- I guess this "influencer" thing is coming along...

That has passed though, and much like the old bit about the guy watching his odometer I was oblivious to the occasion.

I did do my homework. Two biology labs in three hours. But I had a bit of a nervous breakdown first.

I think I mentioned, or maybe I meant to, that during spring break I was going to go back to my PCP to discuss being on my medications. I naively took a few strands of hair to try to back my way out of having a mental disorder and place myself firmly, securely, in with people who have more tangible issues. Things people can see and so treat as less of a farce.

I think that is overwhelmingly the primary cause of today's nervous asphyxiation: most things about myself feel so disingenuous. Is that ironic? Could this be a line in an Alanis Moresette song? She wrote out her whole damn life, just to make an honest connection, and they all thought "well that seems so fake."

No- that's a terrible lyric.

So I went to the doctor and tried to give her an out, and she did not take it. I'm still a little raw about it because she did not really look at my hair, but I can't really imagine there would have been a suitable expression for her to give that would have made me feel better about being told there was nothing wrong with them. I am sure if she had grabbed them, run a few tests, or stared quite intently for a few minutes as though there were something somewhat curious about them, but ultimately reaffirmed it was all in my head I would have been just as disappointed. I'm still quite certain she didn't wholly mean it when she said other people don't muse about suicide in passing as well.

Luckily everyone I have told about this so far has found it quite amusing. Of course it is quite silly to present someone with a bit of hair when you are there to talk about anxiety medication. A coy token of reassurance that they are making the right decision in upping your dosage...but that doesn't seem to be working now, and today I was left wondering "what if this is it?"

What if this is the best I can do- maybe I should stop. Perhaps this is the peak. Should the peak seem like a mist? Nothing gained and nothing to tell? I am coming to the conclusion that I am the batman in this narrative- in that I was shaped by the tragedy of my parents and then remained quite static around a myriad of interesting people I am often combative toward. There is little growth to batman. Or maybe I am over-simplifying him to allow myself to feel better about the way I operate. A jumble of thoughts and the root of today's narrative is that I fucked myself and then became quite frantic about it.

In tears I tried to reason how things got to this point. Right now I am not sure what the matter was beyond my own silly procrastination that maybe proves I am unworthy of desiring anything greater. And so I left the office, vibrating softly, to see an academic advisor, who recommended that I perhaps drop a class? Reminded me that it was good I was on medication, because some people can't leave their house to try to get help- it could always be worse...and break-ups are tough but it will be ok.

I have to read the adventures of Sinbad. I have an algebra test and training in a new EMR. I am quite certain no one in my office is quite certain what I should be doing at any given time. I probably have entirely too much free time. I posted my first art post on Instagram. I wonder if it would be too abrasive to make clothing with photorealistic prints of the people who make the clothing on them. Is it activism or in poor taste? Am I being a feminazi when I get annoyed at rap lyrics about how over this chick some dude is? How he refuses to help her out of the ghetto- because he's not someone's free ride? Or how it's ok to strip as long as you come home? I can't be, I am sure, because as I have insisted, I am not a feminist. Petulantly, like Ferris Bueller, I deny all ists and isms.

I certainly wanted to have more cohesion in the flow of my posts- but this, I am afraid, is not going to be the start of it. Today I considered that I shall die like a much less talented Van Gogh, though I will likely send someone an eye or a chunk of wrist, and I got a referral to a psychiatrist that I have to wait to hear from, amusingly-


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