I love klonopin. At least, once again I do, because lately my anxiety has meant taking the pill. I worry of course about the side effects, but say a little prayer of protection because frankly I feel like if I don't something heinous will happen. What we could not say, precisely, but someone told me that antidepressants have been linked to blood disorders down the road. Ah, how scary, how very scary! So, I take this little agent of relaxation with a judicious prudence only rarely glimpsed in the chambers of Parliament when people there aren't screaming at one another at the top of their wee little British lungs. Or something like that; I haven't a clue how the British judicial system really conducts itself, or the workings of Parliament in general, except apparently I am related to someone named Sir Matthew Hail. I may have the spelling wrong; let's hope it's not heil lest I be accused of indiscriminate, horrific activities devoted to the propogation and upward mobility of white people. Ergh, yuck, bluck! How I got from klonopin to the dubious workings of neo-nazi groups is beyond me, but the brain, it doth work in strange ways.
I continue to live, like a good little masochist (ye olde Freud, bugger ye off) in the horrific Chamber of Horrors with the landlady and her Creepy Ye Olde Boyfriend, a man so weird I have dubbed him the Pedophiliac Santa Claus. He looks like one, he smells like one, he probably IS one, and there is little to do except to leave the house when he appears and when he insists on telecasting his activities to me at the top of his voice. "HEY! I'm going to pick up Madame X now at the airport!" Wonderful, sir, and perhaps I was trying to sleep. Yes, that's OK, women are, for some, not human beings in their own rights but simply people to f---, and I think that this dubious gentlemen (and not of the old, proper, gentlemanly school, methinks) sees women as basically being his caretakers, sex partners, and, in general, people who are supposed to ward off his Inner Demons. His Inner Demons also seem to come about in various icky poems that I devoutly hope are never published, and in general this home is so rife with disgusting pathology one really needs some anti-bacterial agent to rub all over one's self after being in said home. Yes, a lovely image, but I have battled in this GodAwfulState (and it is, quite literally, awful) for almost five years as a poor person on disability attempting to secure HOUSING. Yes, remember back in the day when you had a decent place to live? The mind shudders, the heart aches, the body rejoices, and yet those days are gone, gone, and very gone SOME MORE. And so here I am, and it ain't been fun but, as Layne Staley once famously sang, they ain't found a way to kill me yet.
Yavoile, my dear departed heroin addict; how we loved that voice of yours. Ah, back in the day, the 90's, pining for glory, the good old days, days of youth, days of Bill and Hillary, days that shall never come again. Those were, indeed, the days.
In other news the internet apparently is making us SHALLOW (big surprise) and the counterattack/attack/insurgency of pop-ups and inflammatory content being constantly thrown at us (assaulting visual moments that cause, if not outright blindness, certainly some difficult cognitive activity according to this article I read) stinks. Stinks, sucks, blows, whatever you'd like to call it. We can only process so much information, and in fact are somehow changing our PLASTIC brains by becoming passive absorbers of shallow data. We consume, but do not actually analyze, we passively sit and, via technological osmosis, read but do not THINK. We are being overtaken by the government, folks, or so some AGING codger would have you think, the kind who also believes the FBI is speaking to him through his fillings. I wouldn't doubt it; everyone needs one good vast conspiracy. Klonopin is mine, honey; what's yours?
Peace, love, and downloads a-plenty, folks.
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