I haven’t been doing so well lately; I’ve half a mind to call up my psychopharmacologist and ask her two things: one, if I should increase the dose of Celexa to 40mg just like everyone else and two, if Lexapro is a better match for me. I know it’s a bit weird to start twiddling the dials on your cerebrum by throwing a bunch of different drugs at it, but as long as you equate anxiety/depression with an infection, it doesn’t seem so unnatural. Either way, I’ve had some unfortunate feelings of dread and miserableness that have lately bubbled to the surface like a fart in the bathtub. I’m so bored with it, really, it is one of my least interesting traits.
One way of combating one’s generally awful feelings about the world is to make sure one’s side of the street is clean, so Tessa and I had serious plans to go down to Washington for the anti-war protests, but of course, we didn’t go. It was mostly my fault, being caught in this particularly bad physical state (deviated septum keeping me from breathing, kidney stone threatening to throw me back in the hospital), but I think Tessa appreciated the day to write.
Me, I slept until a billion o’clock. Groggily dragging my ass downstairs, I walked Chopin to Prospect Park, where he fought with a Siberian Husky, chased fifteen squirrels, and almost peed on Steve Buscemi.
Fuck Celexa and Lexapro. I want whatever Chopin is taking.
Chopes on Wednesday night in the country, the one pic where he finally looked at the camera