monday i met with lady psychologist. tuesday i met with two-headed monster psychiatrist(s). wednesday i met with the honda mechanic. lady psychologist, i've found, is very good at getting the story out of me so the one single thing i did not realize is made clear by the simple stating of the case and i see the connections and the reason behind every action, the cause of this misery and that heartache and all the confusion. she is taking away the headaches with my own hands. or at least i'm understanding more fully why they're there.
double-headed asian psychiatrist(s) said i don't need drugs now, but to come to them again when i'm upset. ha! in their white lab coats and hot breath, telling me who i might be, how alcohol affects my brain, then they order blood tests to rule out eating disorders and premenstrual depression, even though i've told them i eat properly and that my sadness doesn't work that way. so i see how useful the interview process really is. they don't want my emotional history, they want my genetic history - they want to know what ways my blood flows - how it enters and exits the brain - and medicate accordingly. those fuckers. i might as well hit up my local ghetto rooster. it's rather fucked up - i fuck myself up (good for them, like happy little pimps), so i can get medicated (even better for them, happy little pushers).
very effeminate honda mechanic-manager-man says to put electrical tape over my check engine light so it doesn't bother me any more. interesting recommendation. i might heed this advice. i might take some drugs and dig up all my problems then commit suicide by ramming my honda into a light pole in the woods at night staring at the sky like some sick, independently-directed vw commercial, listening to pink moon, star-struck and dewy, then after, still staring skyward, only a little blue and moist-looking. then everyone can come to my funeral in halter tops and chokers, smoking cigarettes in the former heroin chic of the nineties. right.