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June 7th, 2014

Anything to make you smile

It took two months (again) for me to relapse on the beast that is Lexapro. I was choking on sobs when they told me I'd be ordering an air conditioner (a lengthy process) and running to the bathroom as best done in really tight slacks to throw up the organic pancakes my boyfriend had so nicely made me earlier. I couldn't handle it. My new psychiatrist, as you may remember, my previous one unceremoniously terminated me, put me on Cymbalta. Well I lasted one day on that before frantically calling her up and begging to be put back on Lexapro, the beast. She said yes. She also says I have Social Anxiety Disorder (duhuh) and wants to do Cognitive Behavioral Therapy with me. I hope that doesn't involve facilitating meetings, driving into the heart of San Francisco, or hell, talking to other people. I assume it does though. I guess Social Anxiety Disorder is the politically correct name for "batshit crazy."

I did wind up with the deaf cat. I went to retreive him and found him to be huge and white as snow. He barely fit in the cardboard box I'd brought along. Tufts of white hair stuck out from the little holes as I hauled him him back to my car. We got home and that's when the trouble started. Immediately, he began shredding my lilac loveseat sleeper. "Why are you doing that?" I asked incredulously as he continued. He then began horking all over my pink bed and taking human-sized turds in his litter pan that caused me to dry heave and light cinnamon incense each time I cleaned it out. One week of this and my fragile mental state deteriorated. "I'll never have children," I told him as he scratched my other couch and I wiped a tear from my eye. Babies, too, hork and poop my boyfriend informed me as I gathered the cat up in the cardboard box to give to my mom. Another epic fail.

Boyfriends's back home. Cat's at my mom's. I feel doomed to wander the planet alone like the Hulk.Except you know, I don't wander the planet. Wander my duplex.