My apologies for the 4 month absence but I didn’t have much to blog about. A mere exception would be the drunken oral sex with Soothed in late May. You know how the story goes. I was so hypersexual that I was about to burst and I needed someone’s hands and mouth all over me. It was flooding in Houston and the power outage somehow sent a surge to my nipples and genitals. I went outside, told him I wanted to drink, and he ate the whore out of me. We had a moment afterwards where he expressed how much he missed me. Of course in my head it translated as, “I missed how you sucked my cock.” We haven’t really chatted much since and I’m perfectly okay with that.
Besides that, life has been quite mundane and uninspiring. Still trying to see just where I fit in this world. Still unemployed. I’m considering ditching grad school.
I haven’t been compliant with my bipolar medication. I know. I know. Shame on me. It’s a constant struggle for me. Do I continue to take them and feel like a zombie or go off meds to feel it all—good and bad? I’ve been on Zoloft, Celexa, Wellbutrin, Equetro, Prozac, Latuda, Ability, and heavens know what else. When I’m on them I feel like a flat soda. When I’m off my meds I feel like I’m full of fizz. Of course I eventually water down but that fizz is where it’s at honey! There’s nothing like it! I crave that fizz even when it’s shooting up all over the place. Ahhh. Refreshing.
Perhaps happiness is not at the end of a prescription bottle. If not, where in the entire fuck is it? It’s not in sex…well maybe temporarily.
It’s been so long that I have been penetrated I could scream! It’s definitely not in binge eating although it helps me cope until I feel like the biggest whale that has ever lived. I’m currently 257 pounds at 5’6″. That’s definitely whale status. When I started this blog I think I was about 20 pounds lighter. I blame blogging. Typing makes me fatter. Ha ha ha.
I know what you’re going to say. “Gosh you’re a McFattie and happiness starts from within. Blah. Blah. Blah.” I feel like I’m rummaging in a bottomless pit in search of something. Anything. I grow tired and become paralyzed. I feel it’s the only thing that I’m good at.
I feel like I’m floating in place. I wake up only to float in that same spot day in and day out. At times I’m afraid to move because it’s all I know. I feel too tired and worthless to wiggle out of the stillness of depression and complancey. I think it’s hard for someone who does not have a mental illness to fully understand. They figure you should pull yourself up by your bootstraps when you feel that your soles are made of broken glass. They figure you should get over it when a simple task of getting out of bed feels like you’re descending from the highest mountain. Here’s my all-time favorite, “Just pray about it.” I by no means follow dogma or religion so calling out to Allah, the Seven African powers, or to white or black Jesus isn’t an option for me. No offense.
Well I guess this wasn’t much of an update. Same shit, same toilet. Hand me some toilet why don’t ya?