I sound so brave as long as you don't ask me to walk the dog. I just can't do it today. My precious Cymbalta has worked its way out of my system completely and all this Wellbutrin I'm subbing for it is only good for is making me pee when I sneeze or cough. *thumbs up* I am so fucking terrified of everything right now. Doc finally got the clue last night as he was leaving. Which is why he came home early today. I am in a bad way. I am calling in sick to existence. Goddamn, my brain is a complicated piece of tissue.
Oh, and allow me to state for the record that my poetry is fucking awesome! Someone out of nowhere today favorited a tweet of one of my videos on youtube. One I haven't posted on my site yet. I stopped what I was doing (listening to Social Distortion's "Don't Take Me For Granted" over and over), and followed my link and listened to it. Fucking piece was awesome. Delivery even better. Why did I ever doubt my poetry? Just because no one on this planet likes post modern poetry, doesn't mean mine isn't the shit, which it is. As I say this, wee little seeds of doubt start dancing about in my head because I've not gone and read last night's poem. The first in a year. Since I went back on Cymbalta.
So I know now that it's the Cymbalta that is stripping me bare of creativity with words. With any fucking luck at all, this art piece will come to fruition regardless of the psychotropics dancing around my bloodstream. And, as I thought, audience participation is necessary because I am just too close to the written pieces. I want to pick all sorts of lines. And I would spend more time narrowing the field down and fussing over what is meant to be just a component of the pieces, not the all consuming part. In many cases, it won't even be seen, because it will be inside the pieces, and they won't be easy to get into.
Okay, I took the dog for a walk. We even went the long way. The Truck Guy's dog ran over to say hello. A boxer, I think. Cute, but mean. The guys apologized and complimented me on my leather jacket. It has chain mail covering one shoulder, an addition I made about 7 years ago. It's a cool as shit leather. Which is why I was so freaked out when M stole it. And why I was so relieved when he gave it back. I've been through more with that leather than with any other person or item of clothing that I know of. Though I do have a Z. Cavaricci shirt that I've had since 1989 that has seen some shit. I still wear it. It's called Droobie. Say what you want about the style of that brand, the clothes hold up.
Guys, why does my 15 minutes continue to evade me? I expect much less from it than I did a decade ago. A few phone interviews, some written pieces. Maybe some live performances on a darkened stage to hide my teeth. Some fucking audience participation. I have worked through some stuff. Here, live. And the burden of noticing is entirely upon the few of you. And that's not fair.
I thought I found friends on twitter, the #StopRush crowd. We had common interests. And they were right there when I got hacked, but once they found out how mentally ill I am, they all deserted me. I think I'm going to unfollow the lot of them tonight and let them get on with their crusade. I don't care enough about Rush Limbaugh to work for people who abandon me when I need them. I don't attract assholes, I allow them. No more of that shit.
I feel like shit. I don't deny it. I will likely regret some of the things I'm doing once I'm medicated right again. Who gives a shit. Kelli's right, I care too much about people who could give a shit about me and don't care enough about me. Giving my efforts to people to connect, and I get the same shallow garbage I got all through school and work. You're everything when they want something from you. But if you want or need something, fuck you, man, you've got a lot of nerve. And how dare you be mentally ill and want to play with the real people. And when I say "real", I mean "undiagnosed".