Your Brain On Overtime

"Well, Mr. Hobobob,"

Mr. Yardstick says to me as we make ourselves comfortable in his cubicle. "Well..." Mr. Yardstick is at a loss for words. A really thin fellow, I can obviously tell that he is wet behind the ears. He is not my usual caseworker. Something is wrong. "...it came up on the computer that you have a pending Fair Hearing case against us." He says to me, motioning to the computer screen. Yeah, that's correct Mr. Yardstick. He nods, swallows hard, "Well, you are no longer in the...your case is no longer in WECARE until the resolution of your Hearing." Fucking fireworks go off behind my stupid eyes. "We wish you good luck," Mr. Yardstick holds out his hand and I shake it. He leads me out of CubicleWorld and in moments I'm standing outside of the Roach Motel.

I'm stupid overjoyed. I need to be taken to a sanitarium. It's like I've just been freed from jail. Shid- Gawddamn. I crack a stupid assed grin and walk off uptown for my hour and a half. Then I hit the train home. Back inside of my space pod, I'm back behind the keyboard of my computer, blogging. I have a mean dry mouth. One of the side effects of LUVOX. But it's not just a normal dry mouth. They should call it desert mouth, with sun beating down on it. I'm not fucking around. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.

What is up with that?

And another thing... walking for long periods of time in New York, you run into a lot of things that New Yorkers do. And I know it's New Yorkers doing this. ...Women, what the fuck is up with your handbags? No, fucking really, what's up with the goddamn handbags, or any fucking bag(s) that you are burdening yourselves down with? What is it? A bag, or a weapon? I'm serious. Is it a bag or a bludgeoning device, because these chicks be blasting a motherfucker with them. I'm not talking about brushing past you, I'm talking about battering the shit out of you. I'm strolling by and a bag comes out of nowhere and takes my arm out, or axe handles my hip. And what the Hell are you carrying in those damn things, bricks?

I never noticed it before but shit, when you're walking for a prolonged period these things are multiplied in frequency. So when I get to the train station I feel as if I've been baseball batted by a bunch of mafia hit-men. I'm happy to be in the subway.

I'm safe at home. I stay my ass behind my computer for about five minutes until my brain starts to leave. I mean, packs the fuck up, turn the lights out in the skull and LEAVES. I crawl into bed and go to sleep for three hours. When I awaken I get back behind my computer and surf the web. I swear to you, no more than thirty minutes of surfing and my eyes get heavy. I'm not bullshitting you. My brain starts cleaning it's desk off. It feels just like that. Your brain begins to fail. I'm sitting there, writing in my blog and I start having problems spelling simple words...words like 'fuck' even. I get dizzy, my whole body feels weak. FUCK THIS. I just slept for three hours!!! I stand and make coffee. Shit.

My brain did not like the fucking overtime. I stayed up until One in the morning. NOW it's time for bed. I have something like a nightmare and half awake shit. I'm sleeping peacefully until my right arm starts to hurt as if a truck rolled over it. I mean HURT. It wakes me the fuck up. I blink and sit up and look down at my arm in my lap, and other than for the pain, everything is normal. And then, I SWEAR TO GOD my arm does a half turn at the elbow. Out of nowhere, it just turns as if it was the head of a possessed person's head. I swear, it scares the shit out of me. I almost pissed on myself. I try to move it and I don't even feel it. I quickly grab it with my left hand and throw it away from me. It flies off like some rubber fake. My heart is beating wildly in my chest now. I'm about to shit my bed, and then I calm down by degrees. The cool logic of my brain returns as I'm slowly waking up. 'Dude,' my brain says...'you arm is SUPPOSED to do that.' I look down at my right arm suspiciously, lift it up and do a bunch of half turns at the elbow. Yeah, your arm CAN do that. What the fuck is up with me? I shake my head and lay back down in bed. Relatively relieved, going back to sleep, looking about in the dark. Paranoid.

That's the kind of nightmarish shit you see when you're on LUVOX, just to let you guys know.

I wake up the next morning, wondering why. Yeah, I wonder why I get up when I do. I know you do it too. You just don't think about it long. I think about it long. You just wake up, look at the clock, probably cuss, roll over and close your eyes again. THAT'S wondering why you woke up. "What the Hell?" You say to yourself. "WHY DID I WAKE UP AT THIS TIME?" I do the same thing, just a minute longer. It sounds suicidal, but its not. We just love sleep. We want to sleep. We are hungry for it. When it's time to get up, we want more. You know what I'm talking about. You HATE waking up. You want to stay asleep. Which sounds like suicide! If you stay asleep, you're dead. Think about it. They call death: "the Big Sleep". You want to die in your sleep if you think about it. So you slow risers, you who lay in bed in the morning, not moving, you're suicidal!! Just a thought from my twisted mind. Just to show you what two years in the street does to your thinking. THAT'S why I'm on a shitload of head meds.

I have my appoint- ment with my psycho- logist, Dr. K. She is nice, but I haven't been to her in about three weeks, because I can't get out of this room. I like being locked up in here. I hate traveling the Way or waiting in crowded waiting rooms. It just drives me crazy. Just crazy. But I have to go today or they'll cut me, and I waited a helluvah long time for her. I'm not stupid. I'm cutting into her pocket by not showing up, so I've got to get the fuck up out of here.

I'm ready for a new day.
I get light headed. My brain is clearing its desk.

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