morning rant brought to you by the makers of abilify 

fu

Dear Doc,

The morning sun burns through the Mayberry sky like an accusation from Heaven. I wonder what will come of this day. More so, I wonder why this day even exists, as its birth seems so difficult for my tired mind to accept.

The brightness of the new day slams into my brain in stark contrast to the shadows and dreams that filled the hours before sunup. The day would like for me to believe that it harbors no ill will, as does the night. I don’t believe it. Not for a second. Those shadows, visible in the darker hours, only become more creative by light of day. How dare the sun stand in judgement of the beauty of night, which shows itself, even when the shadows’ dance torments my tired mind.

Yes, it’s true, I do have a flare for the dramatic. No less true is the fact that I can feel this medicine hitting my brain. It is strange to feel an organ, as most lie within you, quietly, like good boys and girls. You can imagine how strange it is, Doc, when you FEEL a particular organ. Sure, I do pay attention to my liver when it’s had its fill of the garbage I pour into my body. But, to feel one’s brain is another animal, entirely. You feel as though you’re being lifted into the air, somehow. That’s how I feel, at least. It’s like a tiny man is in there, flipping on this switch and that one; turning off others.

I’d give anything for a say in what the tiny man turns off or on. I’d so like to speak with him, if only I could. I’d say, “Tiny Man, it’s nice to make your acquaintance, but please be a dear and leave my sex drive in tact, will you? I thank you ever so much!” However, I doubt that he’d be compliant. Perhaps, should I meet Tiny Man, I’d just squash him with my heel and be done with it. Better yet, I’d eat him, consuming him like a lioness. Either would be too good for him, I’ll tell you that much.

I have quite a bit to accomplish today, and I’m fully committed to the tasks at hand. I’d rather hop in Maxxine and go for a fast drive, but I’ve been running a bit on the slow side, recently. It seems as though these meds make me feel a bit unsure behind the wheel. I haven’t seen 100mph in at least a week, now. I hate that. I’ve no bravado. No…spice. I’m as bland as milk and dry toast. For all intents and purposes, I am dead. Yes. That is correct: Dead. Thank you so much for prescribing me death in a bottle, Doc.

I find it interesting that modern society finds it more acceptable for us ‘crazies’ to be medicated into submission than to simply allow us to be the nuts and crackers that we are. Yes, some of us are dangerous, but most of us are not. We live in a society that is accepting of grown men ‘identifying’ as six year old girls, yet we must make the crazy people sit down and shut the Hell up. Is this really happening? Am I required to call a woman Sir because she identifies as a man, yet no one is required to accommodate my idiosyncrasies in any way? Tolerance. This society can shove that word squarely up its collective ass. While the madness of the LGBTQXYZ is cradled in the arms of Americans as though it were a baby in swaddling clothes, I’m expected to slowly poison myself in order to tolerate and be tolerated.

America, enjoy your cup of hypocrisy this morning. Choke on it, if you must. Just be certain you drink it all down.

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