A Small Victory

Saying nothing in millions of words

I woke up unnerved, trying to catch the fading memory of another exhausting dream. You have to catch these things as soon as you wake up, before they run off and you spend the rest of your day left with fragments that make no sense.

Not that dreams make much sense anyhow. In last night's episode I was frantically trying to get to my house because I forgot to take my Paxil. The house was at some points on fire, so I couldn't get it to it, and at some points sealed off so the men in black could look for signs of contamination. And it was always my mother's house, but I was calling it my own.

I was told to wait in a doctor's office, where the nurses chastized me for never having a mammogram. My father shows up, with his best friend Pete trailing behind him, and behind Pete is another Pete. It's Pete Ganci. He is wearing his fire gear and following my dad and the other Pete around like those silly little animated cursor thingies. You know, when you move your cursor, little butterflies follow it around. That's what the other Pete was doing.

So I never did get my Paxil and I never did make an appointment for a mammogram and I never did find out why my house was sealed off or why Pete was following my dad and his friend around, never saying a word, looking a bit like a shadow.

You can analyze that all you want, but this one is pretty simple. I fell asleep watching Pete and Pete last night. Iggy Pop was in it. So I'm thinking that reruns of Pete and Pete will make you dream of two Petes that you know. Also, earlier in the evening we were discussing dead crows and West Nile Virus and odd things washing up on the shore, so that's where the contamination comes in. But I'm sure that forgetting my Paxil represents a whole other thing here.

I wonder where I would be without my little pink pill. I wonder if I would have killed someone by now had I not chosen to medicate myself. If not killed, then severely hurt someone, at least. Or maybe Justin would have killed me by now. Or left. Looking back, I cannot imagine how he put up with me. Living with a passive aggressive person must be hell on earth. I'm sorry. I apologize to anyone who ever felt the wrath of my mental instability. I'm sorry to anyone who ever had to deal with my martyr/murderer routine.

I am not sorry, however, for harboring evil thoughts against some people. That has nothing to do with brain chemicals, honey. It has to do with you being an asshole. There was a time when the only emotions I felt were hatred and a deep, all consuming sadness. And I didn't mind because the only thing scarier than feeling a hatred that manifests itself into self-hatred is feeling nothing. And depression, well there's something darkly romantic about it, no?

Where was I? I lost track of my thoughts once again. I better stop this train before it wrecks itself.

This has been another post brought to you by sleep deprivation.