Medications

Still taking vicodin. Not convinced of any special visions.

Others pick at their arms, their toes, their face. I pick at a pair of old blisters, my navel, and a spot hidden by my beard.

If it weren't for the sincere, struggling authors who know how to tell you that a sentence needs to be reworked without insisting that you give up part of your mind because "people are dumb" and "you won't sell your book writing like that", I'd forget about showing up.

Today was the first day of the post-Prozac era for me. I notice nothing spectacular.

Yesterday I saw my new psychiatrist for the first time.

This stuff unties the stress knot that coils in my chest for a few hours and then ties it back in a new way if I take too much of it.

Do you recall my mentioning that a rhino's horn is made of the same stuff as a fingernail? The thought occurs to me that I could save my parings, grind them up, and sell them to desperate Asian businessmen.