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El Loco Rises
Anyone who is still reading this (I mean you, right now, out there, and wondering how I know you are there) have figured out this is my almost daily therapy, ill-disguised as penetrating insights overlaid with syrupy yet profound humor. I actually write to find out what I really think, since when I write down what goes in this brain and then read it, I almost always change it so that the men in white coats will not come knocking at my door with butterfly nets.
Speaking of which, I perceive a rapid decline/ascension (called a dichotomy, or sometimes rampant insanity) in my cognitive abilities, which interestingly leaves me more able to access those dark deep hidden meanings that make the Freudians orgasmic and provides them a steady stream of income, and allow me to find out what is really going on up there, or down here, or wherever. The fluidity of thought and writing is what every writer dreams of, as it is pure stream-of-consciousness, with no moderation by that pesky inner censor that keeps me out of trouble most of the time.
Liz has noticed something happening (no doubt due to my bug-eyed red-faced demeanor when screaming at the sky and shaking my fist at those weird people haunting me), and I was able to scrape me off the ceiling, while we reviewed my many medications prescribed by the mental health authorities to make the journey I am on more livable for not only me but also Liz and planet Earth. We found out that one of the prime ingredients, with the trade name Sertraline, had been mistakenly omitted by me when filling my pill boxes most recently, and even perhaps for a week or two. It is a powerful anti-depressant (details, details; what does the absence of a pill or two really matter)? Turns out: Everything.
The experience is somewhat akin to floating along on a cloud, and ramming into a steep vertical sharp cliff filled with craggy rocks, and thinking to one's self that "this is a very interesting experience," since I have all this energy and profound insights that I never had before, and I must certainly be true to myself and express each and every thought profoundly, loudly, directly, avidly and excitedly, and as close to the protagonist's face as possible. It turns out that this is not the best way to navigate the vicissitudes of life when there are other humans around to absorb the anger.
And so Liz is now in charge of refilling my pill container, and I am hoping that all the loathsome wicked horrible animals lurking in my fertile brain will go back to sleep and I can go out in society once more without being chemically gagged and handcuffed, which I am told will be a good thing, not only for me, but also for the planet. The downside is that my writing might not be as interesting and colorful.
I have also given up my carefully thought out master plan to escape the prison on the prairie (my home) and to enjoy the simple pleasure of hearth and home elsewhere (shrinks call this the ultimate "escape fantasy)." Perhaps. We shall see. After my return to Sertraline (which I accidentally had not been taking), and the absence of which accounted for my taking on not only my doctor, but also the whole Christus St. Vincent establishment and demanding a drivers test to get my well-hidden keys to my vehicle returned to me so that I can continue to terrorize the prairie south of Santa Fe.
And so I began to see and accept the problem, which somehow, as always, turned out to be me.
Now, as most of you reading this know, this is simply my weird form of humor presenting itself for your entertainment, and those ugly mean men lurking in the prairie grass outside my studio seem to have gone away for a while, at least, by coincidence, no doubt.
Once those lurking mean folks outside our home decide to return to their previous duties, I will continue this light entertainment.
Don't touch that dial! We'll be right back, all three of us, two of whom you cannot see. Gee, this is sure a lot of fun!
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