And so (which is one of those beginning gear-grinders that you're supposed to edit out, like "I suppose that" or "Have you every wondered about" or "The other day I stuck my best Giesser Chef knife into the dog, and I've got no idea why"), I've run into that conundrum peculiar to the online diarist: how much is too much? What does my audience, such as it is, come here for? I know many that used to come here for my most trenchant political dribblings have wandered away as my output has declined in both quality and quantity, a decline spurred on by my ever-increasing misanthropism, which is in turn backed up with a healthy dose of anxiety and incipient agoraphobia. It's so much easier to loathe people when your mental wiring prevents you from leaving the house, isn't it? Ah, yes.
In any event--look, more gear-teeth ground into wordy metal filings!--a certain amount of my... integrity, for lack of a better word, has recently dissolved into a haze of melting clonazepam wafers, duloxetine hydrochloride, escitalopram oxalate, and lamotrigine. What fun! I, creator of the Miserable Ovoid Creature, have become one myself, and am not-quite-gleefully tweaking my neurochemistry with a number of Officially Sanctioned chemical agents. Not much different than what I spent my twenties doing, only now I'm seeking more targetted results, and there's medical supervision, and better packaging. Oh, look! The little man on the Lexapro package is happy! Of course he is. He's happy because he has properly rearranged his little brain until he can cope with life enough to build a successful career as the logo on the Lexapro box. Good for him. Good show!
Feh. Time to go watch Farscape.
That is all.
Shoo!
