It’s Fucking Raw!

I’m about 300% done.

With what, you ask?

With the internet. Not the trolls (South park is taking care of that for me), not the idiots who start rants on social media about things they don’t understand, and certainly not the eleven year olds posting sexy pictures of themselves captioned “ftw, keep it 100, stfu biatches, snort weed hoe”.

She’s not 12, calm the fuck down.

I’m simply done with internet connections.

It took about twenty minutes for me to load this page. I paid seven dollars for this day of wifi connectivity and this is the result I get?

“Just sign up with an internet company.”

Easy for you to say, you probably have enough money to pay an internet company. I’m about to get fifty frappe’s from Starbucks and start my ass on some Nikola Tesla shit. Resurrect Wardenclyffe for some free Wifi and energy.

I mean, does anyone ever think about this? How can they claim dibs on wifi if it’s everywhere? How can you claim dibs on energy when it is literally everywhere? It can’t be created or destroyed, only transformed. Don’t tell me PG&E is the only way you can power a fucking light bulb because I’ll slap you so hard with some science you’ll be dropping chemistry test tubes out your ass for a month.

There has to be a way you can create something that receives a signal without you having to saw off your leg and fuck the manager of Comcast while pretending he’s “Daddy” and you’re his “little girl”.

Fuck Comcast with a capital F.

Could this rant be a result of my nerves over my psychiatrist appointment on Monday or the mountain of math homework I’ve been staring at but not touching, or the frustration I feel over my tendency to avoid every single thing that overwhelms me (which turns out to be everything)? You tell me, smart guy.

Oh God, I just assumed your gender, oh fuck me, send out the killer clowns and put on your metal chastity belts before Donald Trump grabs your cooch and Clinton breaks into your house and deletes your entire gmail history.

2016 in one sentence.

Fuck off.

My goal in life is to be the Gordon Ramsay of the psychiatric world. Picture this:

[Enter]: three residents, two with goofy grins on their faces and one with a patented “I’m going to be a doctor next year” flat-line face. They all have their clipboards clutched to their chest like it’s the first day of class and they don’t want anyone to see how much they suck at math. I am wheeled in on a throne made of previous resident’s broken dreams and souls with four angels with wings of solid gold pushing me along. The wheels of the throne are translucent and easily visible is the bubbling blood of my enemies; my source of energy. I puff generously on a Cuban cigar  I made a resident crawl through Cuban jungles to get.

Me: Repeat my motto!

Them: People not products.

Me: Again!

Them: People not products

Me: WITH ENTHUSIASM!

Them (visibly shaken): People not products!

Me: Good. Better than yesterday; yesterday you were shit.

Resident 1: That’s a little harsh.

Me: What? What did you say? Hey–hey! Listen you fucking donkey, don’t tell me I’m harsh when you’re shit!

Resident 2 (under breath): a compliment would be nice once in a while

Me: You want a fucking compliment? I haven’t had to take your clipboard and shove it up your ass sideways yet! There’s your compliment. Hey–hey, did that hurt? Fucking sue me!

I’m sorry, I had to pause and ask myself what the fuck do I write about these days?  This is my personality, people. I should be on T.V making millions of dollars for insulting people. Think about how self-fulfilling that would be to know you are the one person with such great comebacks about dry camel asses and raw food that people hate you so much that they tune in and watch you every week. What a wonderful source of fuel for my shattered ego and what a wonderful cure for my crippling depression.

My nerves are running rampant about this appointment. Meeting new people is one thing: meeting a new psychologist is another; meeting a new psychiatrist is ten times worse than both of the above. I’ve been fighting with myself over whether I would ever, ever, ever again in my life consider medication and although the dominant screech in my head is “what the fuck are you thinking you fucking psychopath, No!”, there’s a tiny voice somewhere hidden in the crevices of my brain matter saying “let’s get legally high”.

No, really it’s saying “do it.”

My problem is getting stuck in a cycle. My problem is 1) finding the words to explain myself and 2) explaining myself so well I went up getting thrown down the rabbit hole.

I have special names for things in psychology. Hospitals are called the Lions den because once you’re in there, you go by their rules.

The rabbit hole is the cycle of treatment people get stuck in, that I almost got stuck in once. The “take this medication, but it causes this so take this medication, but those side effects suck so take this one but now you can’t get off of them without horrible withdrawal or a psychotic break so I’ll just tell you that you might as well stay on them for the rest of your life” cycle.

I’m acutely aware that taking medication would mean my brain is forced to fight itself . Doctors call it “adjusting”. I don’t. Because it’s not your brain “adjusting”, it’s your brain constantly sending out more neurotransmitters to keep itself in homeostasis against the synthetic chemicals; that’s why you develop a tolerance–your brain finally reaches homeostasis once again and you don’t feel the effects of the medication anymore.

Until you quit it and suddenly your brain, which has started sending out huge amounts of transmitters to compensate and balance the other transmitters, sends out more than it needs because the chemical is now gone. That’s why you get withdrawal. That’s why alcoholics have seizures. That’s why many people who stop their medications have bad mental side effects.

I don’t have health insurance so what does any of this matter? Even if I wanted medication I wouldn’t get it. So, I guess . . .

Internet is working now.