It has been a strange trip since January 3rd, the day I quit taking Celexa after having been on it for approximately two years.
And thirty-four minutes later, I am writing the second sentence. Where was I? Oh, yes. This is the fifth day post-Celexa,
Okay, sewiously. Yes, sewiously. This is ridiculous. I tried knitting a pattern that is a repetition of eight stitches, and I couldn't do it. Knit, purl, knit, purl, purl, drop a stitch, damn, backtrack, realize it's supposed to be purl-knit-purl, drop a knitting needle, crap. It was when I realized that I wasn't even sure what I was knitting — an arm warmer? a yoga sock? — that I trashed that pasttime for something easier, like eating potato chips.
It turns out that potato chips, aside from not being an actual pasttime, create truly noteworthy bloat on demand when one's hormone levels are at that perfect balance of bitch and carbo-lust. My boobs have reached impressive proportions, especially after I threw some dip in with the chips and ate cured sausage in order to top up my consumption of nitrites. My bra can barely contain these beauties at the moment, but that's alright, because my burgeoning gut is helping to hold them up.
Also, I have no sense of time. I had to count out that it has been five days since I quit my medication several times over on my fingers, because I couldn't believe that it has been any more than three.
In brief: stupidity, big boobs, and an inordinate amount of time was spent writing seventeen sentences, it took several minutes to count them, and I'm still not sure that I've counted correctly.
Damn. That's eighteen.
Does one word with a period after it count as a sentence?
Damn. I'm screwed.