Happy Thoughts

American Sicko

German sicko, actually. I cannot tell if I have the flu or if it's the doing of my pesky little tetracyclic friend or my new acquaintance, the beautifully named Abilify, but I feel like throwing up, laughing out loud, curling up into a little ball and going on a shooting spree at 4311 Wilshire Blvd. (Spanish Lawyer). Will this go into my CIA file? To make matters worse, Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho" is being adapted into a musical. Ugh.

In short(s): I live in an ivory tower, bitch!

I don't know what to make of this. Dr. S. is retired and only seeing select patients on Tuesdays, which means he's seeing like 16 people max. And he always led me to believe, or so he said, that not only do we have a special, mutually fulfilling relationship, but that he was fascinated by my particular case in particular, it being a rare semi-psychotic yet totally mundane phenomenon. In short: he made me feel like I belonged to a small elite of super patients, worthy of his Punjabi wisdom, cultivated by not just Yale but many a stay in an ashram (over the past ten years he's regularly escape back to India). I hate to say "in shorts" twice, but yes, in shorts: Dr. S is my guru. So, imagine my horror, when I saw two of his other patients this past Tuesday, two fellow tribesmen of the fellowship of the SSRI. Patient A. trots out of his office, barely lifting his feet off the ground, tattooed from head to toe and wearing a jean jacket that could use some severe laundering. Then bursts in Patient 2, slamming the door and answering her cell: 'Why You Callin' Talkin' Stupid?' Hangs up. Phone rings again: 'Yo, don't be fuckin callin me like that, fool.' I'm just living in my ivory tower (ivory towers are a little racist, I know, but Patient A is white, and obviously, Dr. S is brown and my husband is heavily tattooed, so eat that!), but I really feel kinda weird now.

It's All Bull

I just want to clarify that I harbor no ill feelings toward toreros in particular. Nor do I wish any harm on them or their sons and daughters and the sons and daughters of their sons and daughters. It's perfectly fine to kill innocent bulls for money and spectacle. It's a manly, honorable, noble thing. And the righteous thing is, of course, for the bull to perish painfully, as his blood seeps slowly into the dry hot sand, while Hemingway-types and office assistants slap each other on the back in macho camaraderie.

Spanish Lawyer Part Deux

Occasionally I slip into an alternate universe where I get karmically punished for being a flake and not calling people back. Such as yesterday. After trying to reach the dopey Spanish lawyer who hit my car for two days, he finally condescended to taking care of this small matter. As we were walking down the depressing hallway to his sword-infested office, the following conversation ensues:

He: Have you been losing weight?
Me: not really.
He: you really should
Me: well, it's not working
He: it's such a shame. You used to be so beautiful. All you need to do is diet and exercise
me: silent
he: you're face is still beautiful though! It’s just such a waste.

in his office:
he, to his secretary: doesn't she have a beautiful face? Like a model. She just needs to lose weight.
me: (murderous thoughts)

Sword Play

The doped-up Spanish lawyer hit my car. The security guy saw it, though. But what really sucks that I'm going to have to visit him in his office with his torero swords and bullfighting posters and actually try to talk to him. He who spends his days in the parking lot smoking and hitting on all the pretty editorial assistants. He, who on top of his natural lisp now slurs his words. All three of us tried to sniff alcohol on him on Friday, when he barged into a meeting and anounced: "I hit your car." But it's probably pain killers.

"Je t'aime... moi non plus"

Just because I'm sick (and A. is sick and M. is sick), and I needed something pretty to look at.