Radio Diatribe

Will I find it to be really lame next week? We will see.

I want to be a Colombian drug lord. Not just any drug lord, but a Colombian one (with a proper Colombian passport and everything). I guess my next immediate priority is finding me a Colombian wife.

And I hate Postal Service even more. Just needed to reiterate that.

I want to work for Maclean’s, be friends with Douglas Coupland and Bruce LaBruce, and grow a creepy moustache. Yeah, and I want to be a princess.

My therapist tells me that I “have certain redeeming qualities” and that I “have much to offer in a relationship.” This can’t be good, can it?

Just the other day, my parents offered me a 2007 Volkswagen Rabbit as a ‘graduation gift’ despite the fact that it’s been three years since I’ve graduated from high school, and I won’t be graduating from the university for at least another two years. I am guessing it’s their way of saying “sorry for passing down the psycho genes.”

The lame excuse for a gift aside, it’s quite interesting that they seem completely oblivious to the fact that medications for the very condition the gift is somehow supposed to ameliorate (i.e. being psycho) makes me unfit for driving (you can’t drive if you’re half-asleep pretty much all the time). As we all know, or rather as we the people who are not my parents all know, being half-asleep pretty much all the time does not mix well with driving. More importantly, depression does not mix well driving; just think of all the ways you can commit suicide with a car. I can almost see it now, every badly executed turn and missed signal followed by an ad hoc suicide counselling.

I think I am going to call them in a few days with a carefully rehearsed recounting of a traumatic childhood event to see if I can turn that 2007 Volkswagen Rabbit into a 2007 Volkswagen Jetta.

*Update: It’s been downgraded to “depression with bipolar characteristics.”

Got the idea from indigo-witch.

Last night, I had the most intense dream in ages. At least, I think I did; I can’t, for the life of me, remember any details.

One thing for sure is that as I woke up, I had this biting desire to hold, hug, smell, and smooch a baby, specifically a son that I’ve fathered. And, this feeling has stayed with me all day.

Confusing though it is (I thought only women had this kind of dreams), I felt strangely happy and uplifted. As I was waiting in line to confirm my psych appointments at Health Services, I wondered whether I should have one of those man-with-a-low-self-esteem-wondering-if-the-world-really-needs-more-losers-like-him crisis, but then I figured I needn’t worry about it; it’s probably just Paxil messing with my mind.

While I feel very happy (only if irrationally so), I get this ominous feeling that a year from now, I will be visiting a nice, professional lesbian couple every month to hold, hug, smell, and smooch my biological son.

God, I really need to switch to a different antidepressant.

But then, saying “I am 29 years old, and, by the way, I have a 7 year old son with this lesbian couple that I know” will sure get the conversations going at white-collar, upper middle class social gatherings. Or, make the room go completely silent.

Ever since the dose has been upped four weeks ago, I’ve been either sleeping 12+ hours a day, or feeling like shit because I got less than 12 hours of sleep the previous night. Before Paxil, I was depressed, but more or less functional; now, the depression has gotten better, but I can’t function.

I am meeting with a psychiatrist this week, and I think he’s going to put me on another antidepressant (probably Effexor). And the timing is just wonderful; I will get to experience first-hand the Paxil Withdrawal Syndrome, various bizarre Effexor side-effects, and, if I am really lucky, serotonin syndrome just as the midterm season rolls around. Fuck.