12:59 a.m. - 2004-12-11
As a matter of fact, I think I may be all turned around on my anti-nuke stance too.
Fucking shit.

I�m off the Paxil. I�m on the withdrawals. No kinda fun.

See, I had to go all but cold turkey for reasons I don�t feel like explaining now, and it�s bad. Bad.

They symptoms started a few days ago. Buzzing in my head, a strange sort of dizziness, dreams that were more vivid than my waking hours and my waking hours seeming as removed as dreams. Odd electric zaps that radiated from my skull. Unable to think of the words I want to use.

Not so awful, I think. I look it up on the internet and read that it is par for the course. But some people are bitching about this shit like it is Armageddon. �Hell on earth,� they say. �As bad as coming off heroin!� they claim.

�Pussies�, I think.

That was a few days ago I think I mentioned. I don't think they are pussies anymore. Today was fucking ridiculous. There is no real way to describe it because I never felt like this before.

I took the train downtown to see my new shrink, the one whose supervision I am under during this transition from one narcotic to the newly improveley.

Fucking shit.

Every sound was amplified in my head to a horrible, grinding, irritating, I hate you, and you and you and-am-glad-that-the-assault-rifle-ban-was-dropped-because-that-means-there-is-more-chance-of-more-of-you-dying pitch. I felt like barfing every time the train jerked. And the train jerked.The train picked up jerks. Jerks that screamed like jerks. The woman sitting next to me was driving me to madness. Why? Simply because there was a guy who was standing next to her who kept almost clocking her in the head with his stupid back-pack. Her fault? No. But just seeing her be irritated by this made me hate her.

A fucking passel of highschool kids pile on. They don�t be quiet. They don�t be quiet no matter how many times I scream the words� BE QUIET� in my head. The one I hate the most read a sign that tells passengers to keep their fingers away from the whatever the fuck it is that will pinch them. He, for reasons not possibly discernable, decided to scream the words on the sign �KEEP FINGERS AWAY� loud enough to be heard above the roar his idiot friends were creating already. Not one or two times. Thirty to forty times. I didn�t want to punch him right then. No, I wanted to follow him until he was away from the atmosphere that drove him to this fucking idiocy. Follow him until he was sitting quietly, like a normal person on a train, with no one to impress by being a jackass and then and only then try my hardest to lay him out in one blow .

I feel like I have to barf. That means nauseous. I start to cry. Sometimes weep. Or even quietly wail into my pillow. On my way home from the doc I wanted nothing more than to be in my bed. That frustration I�m sure you all have felt when you are very, very ill but not at home in any sort of comfort. When everything that transpires seem like it was sent by satan to impede your progress home. Every minute seems like an eternity. You can�t sit comfortably. You have no choice but to interact, however mildly with people. Each exchange seems like it takes a chunk of your soul away from you. Bed. That�s all you can think. Please, nothing more than bed. You know that feeling?

I made it home to bed and that feeling didn�t stop
.
Yep. This will pass. Please don�t tell me that again or I will envision strangling everything and everyone within my grasp.

That�s this empty root beer can, and me.

Fucking shit.

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