I think I’d make Grade A Coyote Meat, or at least Grade B…(Part 1 of(already published)3)

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All right all ready buddy, we get it.
It’s grub time…

I thought I published Part 1, but,um, it looks like it was just still in draft form. I’m going to still run with I’m new to this shit. Ok…Sooooo Part 1 of my 3 part rant…

Stress is a killing factor for a bipolar person.  It can drive you so close to the edge, well, over it for some people.  It just weighs heavier on us compared with other people.  Not many people would decide the best way to deal with the speeding ticket you just got is to drag yourself out to the desert, slit your wrists and feed the wildlife. 

Then no one would have to deal with your cold, soulless body in what would surely be a traumatizing experience to said handlers.  I had it figured out how to feed the dog enough food so that she had to find the other food over time.  She’d probably just start eating it all up if I fed her enough to survive until someone noticed I wasn’t taking care of business. 

 

But I’m here, obviously, taking care of business.  I bought some pot and honestly, I feel like I don’t even know who that person was.  Seriously.  Like it was a dream or something.  But that’s what stress does.  I just melt into a pool of myself.  Useless.  Irrational.  And crying hysterically.  Truly a pathetic site. 

 

But it’s rare these days and that’s the beauty of it.   The past month, the doc has been changing my meds and I know it’s been a rough transition.  Serious withdraws like never before from the one, citalopram.  I’m still nibbling a small morsel off of a pill because I’m afraid to get sick again.  Only once before in the 13 or so years of my adult life have I wanted (and did) go to the ER for pain.  This time, it passed because there was no way I was driving myself 30 minutes to the hospital and it didn’t last too long.  But that was some rough shit. 

 

Years ago, pre-prescribed legal drugs, I was a mess all the time.  I had a lot of issues and would black out, oh I don’t know, maybe monthly, for a few years.  And just because I didn’t black out more than that doesn’t mean I wasn’t shit face wasted most of that month as well.  It’s the blacking out that scared me. 

 

At 110 lbs and cute, not being conscious is not good.  I’m lucky.  I’ve remained fairly unscathed.  No one’s unscathed.  That’s fucking life.  You’re going to get scathed over time, no two ways about it. 

 

Ahh, but why I’ve drifted there, couldn’t tell you.  I’ve got the “bipolar barfious” going on lately.  Sounds more official then, right?  If you add –ious to it…Again, I’ve been delighted to hear from others out there in blogville about the barfing condition that happens to all of us.  We often say wayyyyy more than we probably should have.  Shhhhit, I’m actually dealing with the consequences of my fucking mouth right now. 

 

I moved on to the grounds of an Inn.  I rent an apartment in the back and answer the phones in the evening for a discount on my rent.  It technically works out to like $0.80/ hr but I’m home anyways and the phone rings maybe once a night.  I also can go eat breakfast for free when there are guests and I get my sorry ass out of bed in time.  I go about once a week.  

 

It’s kind of like working because I grew up in the service industry.  It’s like a disease.  I can’t help but be hospitable.  “How was your stay?” “Where are you from?”  I just want to eat, shoot the shit with the cook and roll out, but it’s a disease.  I’ve got Server Disorder as well.  Damn, I’m fucked up. 

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