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7 years ago (10/04/04)

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24 year-old female from Lafayette, LA
J00. Umm... This is where I sell myself, right? Well, since I love selling myself short... you'll just have to find out the hard way.

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Ever wondered what it's like to be me?
...They like to bite you in the arse.

Really hard.

Kinda hard to swallow my tongue and make Jakoby stop his nagging. Kinda hard not to yell. It's very hard indeed to silence my muse on the grounds that he will have to find another creative outlet for me in the meantime.

I've been clean off of my medications for a year now. And while the first month is the most stressful time to be med-free, with the meds I was on, it takes a full year till your system has been cleared. This inevitably leads to the fact that my dillusions returned a couple weeks back. Audial, visual, reception... you name it, it's become muddled.

I'm still not quite back up to my own strength yet. Not that these people were aware of it at the time. Or that they all gave me these notices at the same time. Funny thing, timing. It's all quite relative, isn't it? Not a single one of them expected me to react the way I did. Hadn't a clue. And I have no doubt that I wouldn't have let them see my reaction the way I did, if it weren't for the fact that they all did it roughly one after the other. Normally I just go along. But by the third and fourth persons, Jakoby was starting to get a little addled. It's very disheartening when he's addled.

Try this bit of imagery on for size.

Imagine that you are the happiest person alive. For no damn reason. Nothing particularly good has happened, and there are a few bad things that have happened. But that doesn't matter. You're fucking happy. Maybe that's why you've been walking around town in circles since the sun began to creep its way along the horizon. When your foot sends a wave of pain along the left side of your body that causes the right side to cramp, you may pause momentarily and wince, but you laugh loudly and continue to hobble down the road. People stare at you. But that's fine. People like to stare.

That's right, you need to call your friend. But when you pick up the phone, grinning like an idiot so hard that your teeth are chattering, you can't get your hand to dial the number. Instead it makes a strange popping sound and drops the cell phone on the floor. That's right; your hand hasn't been able to dial on a phone for over a month now. It hardly responds to your pleas, and when it does it appears to be possessed and spasms uncontrollably. Your friends sometimes joke that you could have Parkinson's. Smiling at their silly comments, you put the phone in your other, less trained hand and shakily dial the number.

Wrong number. Really? Waited a month for that number, and right when you were really starting to get concerned about the person on the other end's health, it fails you. Odd. Looks like you'll have to go and find someone to get it for you. Wait, your teeth are chattering? When did that start? You hurriedly make your way to a bathroom, where you proceed to sit on the floor for several hours, curled up in the fetal position. For some reason, the smell of bathroom floors always seem to help keep you from throwing up what little food you managed to swallow.

You wake up a few hours later. It's dark, and you're not entirely sure who's house you're in. There's so many you've been in, and they're all equally viewable as home. Pulling yourself up onto your good foot, you hobble out into the kitchen. Not hungry. You don't really feel all that bad. Well, your foot is killing you, your hand hasn't felt a blasted thing in over a month, your teeth are still chattering, and you're still snickering like a damn fool, but you don't really feel all that bad. Maybe you could sit down on the couch?

No, that won't do. Your eyes focus in on a patch of air somewhere in the middle of the room and immediately slip away from each other, pulling you into nothingness. Maybe it'd be better if we just closed our eyes... Ah, that's right. How could you forget, he's still upstairs! Now you at least have company, even if it's in the form of a disembodied voice of a person you haven't seen in front of you in over a decade.

He seems a bit distraught. But asides from the usual halucinations and physical disabilities, there isn't anything to be so worried about. He should relax. After all, you're still pretty damn happy. He thinks you should go to sleep. You've been staring at the fireworks on your eyelids for the past several hours. You haven't moved. There isn't anything that demands your time. Nothing but him, and you're only useful to him if you're sleeping or doing something. Ah well. Might as well sleep. We might even dream. Wouldn't that be lovely?

...I have become a socket.

PS - This entry is not meant to be viewed as sarcasm or embelishment in any way, shape, or form. This is pretty much how I go about my busiest day of the week. You don't want to know how the other six are. Just trust me on this. It's a very odd sensation, getting to know me. Hell, I would know. That's exactly what I'm trying to do right now. Have to, when my brain is relocating like it is.

6 years ago | Comments (1) | + 2 Cool

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