and then you go & turn around & break my heart (waste my cyclops time, i've got a cyclops mind)

Discussing the philosophical similarities of post-war societies as exemplified by the French existentialists and the Japanese post-war weirdos who committed seppuku——at 3AM because I can't sleep.

(I tapped out of the discussion when he started talking about citing and cross-referencing manga to reinforce his point about Japan, whatever it was. There's my limit for that one.)

In related news, all of my closest friends are disaffected, mentally ill, frustrated intellectuals. I'm going to continue to be in denial as to what that says about me.

---

( apparently at 3am i also enjoy a spot of blasphemy towards a non-existent god. TW: contains arguable callousness towards recent tragedies in Japan, me being too sick and tired (literally) to think about it on a compassionate level. )

i don't make the rules but i break them up

Am currently contemplating going back in time and killing parents of whoever the fuck had the brilliant idea to invent alarms. Possibly I'll take it further and kill the parents of whoever invented the goddamn clock.

Death! Death to all who worship this infernal device! NO CAKE! NEVER CAKE. ONLY DEATH.

Yes, I still believe that everything I say is totally rational and reasonable, why do you ask?

Nota bene: Kids, a word from our sponsors:
They're telling me that murder is wrong.
(Unless that son of a bitch needed killing;
I believe this is also called
'The Texan Defense.')

ETA: it may also be called justifiable homicide
which you can totally get away with
(or so I hear)

however being as my work on my non-existent law degree
would be best described as
"negative progress
considering the whole record thing"

don't try this at home.

and if you do, don't quote me.

i think i can control the urges at first—i do it over & over again

So I had a psychiatrist appointment today.*

(*For those of you who are still impatiently waiting for the entry I said I would write like a week ago about my sex life, I'm going to try to compile it from chatlogs later today. If you wanted a real entry, that MIGHT take another month, if it got written at all and I didn't just decide to pretend I'd forgotten about it, so you'll take what you can get and LIKE IT. [Or dislike it. But either way, yeah.]

For those of you who don't care, I'm going to end this parathentical now.)

For whatever reason, I decided my mood this morning (homicidal, as detailed in my last entry [dw/lj if you have short term memory loss, no judgment, only love]) needed to be annoyed out of submission by pretending to be in a good humor and, most importantly, joking incessantly with anyone I had to interact with.

Unfortunately, as panda would line up to tell anyone repeatedly if she could, my sense of humor can, at best, be described as "morbid" and at worst, be described as "fucking awful."

(At one point in time, I suggested tagging any entries I made that I found particularly funny as "shit no one else is going to like at all because I fully believe this is hilarious." She supported me in this decision, because she is awesome like that. Sadly, that's way too long for any tagging system. So many lives lost due to this tragedy.)

For those of you who do actually find me funny, I'm sorry, this is obviously Stockholm Syndrome. Medical help has been dispatched, but they have no idea where you are, so if you can leave a comment by just lightly rolling your head around on the keyboard (*friend alert system, patent pending by me, instituted due to the profuse drunkenness often found in my IM windows)——they will get to you as soon as you manage to hit 'tab' and 'enter' or somehow post your comment in some other way.

No one at my psychiatrist's office finds me funny. Or if they do, they hide it very very well, behind a level of "I have to work with crazy people all day, but you are maybe the worst——we think the people who don't bathe at all ever may just edge you out, but we don't know, poll results aren't in yet, we'll get back to you."

The problem with that approach is that my brain apparently thinks "no response" means try harder. Brain, I am not a stand-up comedian, I don't get paid for this shit, and what Body actually wants is to go home and go back to bed, so stfu.

My psychiatrist cleverly headed today's stupidity off at the pass by going off on a long tangent about the neuro-physiology of addiction because I happened to mention that I may theoretically be thinking about quitting smoking sometime in the foreseeable future. Maybe.

However, if anyone in reality asks, I am definitely trying to quit by cutting down right the fuck now, and um, if you can say this with a straight face and my psychiatrist is asking, I am now down to smoking 3 cigarettes a day. SO I DIVIDED BY 5. SO WHAT.

In between me pretending to care by asking such insightful questions as "but if dopamine is the neurotransmitter behind addiction, why do people like depressants which are GABA inhibitors" (note: question as displayed in rear view monitor may actually appear to be insightful, this is a TRICK) and actually getting him to admit he had no real idea how that worked——we agreed to cut down my Cymbalta to 20mgs.

I think the logic there was that we would pretend like that might have any effect on the fact that Cymbalta turns my anxiety up to 11 and rocks out to the beat, and in return, he would continue to write a prescription for me for the same amount of benzodiazepines as I got before which doesn't actually do anything to help, since I haven't gotten a full night's sleep since I started taking this shit. (And probably when that doesn't work he'll start prescribing me Adderall again because stims are awesome cut down my anxiety. Weirdest reason for meth use ever, y/y?)

The true secret behind any psychiatry dealing with me appears to be "throwing things at the wall of crazy and seeing what sticks" is what I'm trying to say. I did not tell this to my psychiatrist, displaying my once daily attempt at having good judgment. There is always a possibility he might actually find a capacity to be offended (not evidenced in the previous 6 1/2 years) if I say that when I'm not depressed.

Although! I did notice a new-to-me piece of art, which was awesome, because it got him off addiction and onto rambling about how his wife something Mexico something I stopped paying attention 20 minutes ago, dude, I know you are nearly as bad a rambler as me, but there is a reason that your appointments always run late if people actually show up.

To be fair to him, though, the clinic I go to is the only one in town that accepts the free insurance offered by the state for the seriously mentally ill, so there are a lot of no-shows because as a rule everyone there is dealing with a lot of shit. Appointments are therefore generally on time, because it seems like every other person cannot find the fucks necessary to give in order to make it to the clinic.

(I'm tempted to redefine spoon theory as "Give A Fuck theory" right now. Is it just me? It's usually just me.)

In related news, I have lost the ability to tell when I'm being sarcastic. I'm just going to assume I'm being serious all the time now, which makes my offer yesterday of being able to transport a body (my car is black! this will work well if we dump it at night!) kind of scary in retrospect.

If you happen to find a sarcasm-detector, maybe you can leave it somewhere where I'll trip over it. Although on second thought, maybe I should blame all of this on the two physical illnesses (both infections, not another abscess tho, no worries) I currently have and just pretend that I'm not like this when I'm not running a fever.

I mean, it's not true, I'm actually like this all of the time, but it is an extremely convenient explanation, and I feel kinda bad not using it when the excuse is just hanging around, bored. In my experience, there's usually another convenient excuse when this one inevitably reaches its statutory limitations.

(And now having ended up on a kinda downer note, I'mma just leave this here and pretend I didn't see it.)

i wake up, don't know how i got there

Okay, see, I write that long entry and John Scalzi has already summarized it by saying (roughly): "when you fail at being clever, you become 'asshole.'"

I think my problem*

*the panda in my head is saying "your ONLY problem?" and laughing hysterically, but I blame this on the fact that the one in my head is not connected to panda in reality except by how well I know her, so the one in my head doesn't have migraines, whereas the real one does. Bones, if you're curious, sometimes the you-without-migraines can be a bit of an asshole, but that might just be me bleeding through.

As I said, I think my problem is that I forget this all the goddamn time, and then I only recognize that I'm actually being an asshole... when it is in the past tense. When hindsight is 20/20. Use your favorite metaphor here.

Seriously, yesterday I gravely insulted a gas station attendant, my own mother (BEHIND HER BACK TO MY FATHER), a close friend's dog (who has cancer... yeah) and probably some other people I don't remember—not because they weren't important! but because yesterday was evidently Be Extremely Insulting To Everyone By Accident Day.

If this explains your yesterday as well, I'm sorry I didn't get the holiday notice out in advance, but next year maybe I'll do better.

Most people kick themselves for l'esprit d'escalier; I want to turn that shit off. I am not interested in being an asshole! And, really, my sense of humor (such as it is) only makes this worse, because even the people who know me well think well, that was kind of mean sometimes most of the time always but she probably meant well!

I'm not even going to try to rationalize the comparison I made of a close friend's dog (who has cancer and is undergoing intensive radiation therapy and is presumably on painkillers) to Lindsay Lohan (who ... is on drugs a lot and does not have cancer that I am aware of). Luckily he thought it was humorous, and it was slightly less of a giant dick move in context, but ... what the fuck, self. What the fuck.

On the very small good things side, my icon for this entry is so completely appropriate I'm a little impressed with myself.