The picture of Alfred Hitchcock offering up a "suggestion" amuses me terribly. Right now, I'm sitting here sipping on coffee and listening to the dog breathing heavily behind me. It's supposed to be sunny today, and mild, which I do like but only under the right conditions. Direct sunlight makes me feel dirty and wretched, like some black, slimy thing from Lord of the Rings. I even painted the top half of my window with green oil-based paint I had in a little artists' kit. The sun also picks up the dust in my flat, no matter how much I clean, and that bugs me.
Some wind would be nice. It offers a distraction from me. The universe can't be judging me during a wind storm, or a storm of any kind. This fair weather, however, makes me feel like I'm in the spotlight, as if the world were looking at me and waiting for me to do something of consequence. Since that is highly unlikely, I'm left feeling like a failure. All because of the weather. It may be odd, I'm not sure anymore.
I definitely did something hairy to my right index finger when I punched the wall last week. The wall was really asking for it, though. It is healing and fading into another insane memory. Because of that little episode last week, I've decided to start taking risperdal. For the first time in my life I'm afraid to start a new medication, even though I was on it for awhile several years ago. When I start a strong psychiatric drug I'm a bit fearful of the two familiar potential side effects of just about every anti-psychotic; tardive dyskenesia and Neuroleptic Malignancy Syndrome (NMS). They are both very rare, but my roommate in the bin developed tardive dyskenesia and it wasn't pretty. I don't even know if he is alive.
For all I know they chucked him into the harbor.
More than likely, the only thing that will happen is aches and pains, coupled with sleepiness. At the very worst I'll have a seizure, which doesn't bother me because I'm not around for those, anyway. The last time I had one I woke up in the hospital feeling beaten up. There was also a scratch just above my penis, in a forest of pubic hair. I theorize that someone tried to give my wang mouth-to-mouth (mouth-to-pecker), and I got scratched in the kerfuffle.
Remind me to get my eyeglass prescription filled. Every movie I watch looks like an Impressionist painting, what with the blurriness. I thought Bridge to Terabithia was another remake of Wages of Fear, with a rope swing instead of a truck full of nitroglycerin.
Last night I couldn't sleep, so I sat in The Green Room and read The Terror. As is my habit, I was buck naked at the time, since that is how I sleep. So at 2am I walked around the room, got my book, and sat down to read. Then I noticed the Smoking Man outside the flat across the courtyard and street. He was working a little too hard at trying to seem nonchalant. Thus, it seems likely that he saw my flippin' and floppin' lazy bishop. Dr. Seuss calls it a, "Wangdoodle."
I wasn't even on a trampoline, this was just my normal floppin' around. The next thing I knew, he was knocking on my door with a very unusual request.
OK, that last part was a joke.