#687: THE CRAZY WRITES A POEM

I am sitting here eating a yogurt and granola parfait, feeling particularly everything. I'm not sad or happy or tired or excited. I am everything. Everything is the mood, and I can't shake it.

It's all my fault, too. Since I started taking an anti-depressant sometime around January, I have always taken it at night, because when I started taking it, it made me feel light-headed and I spoke like I was yelling and my tongue dried out. It was best to take it at night and sleep through the side effects. A couple of mornings ago, though, I realized that I had not taken it in two days, because I never remember at night when I'm tired and nodding off over a plate of re-heated asian food in front of an episode of "Law & Order".

So, I came up with a new plan of action. I decided that I would take it in the morning, because at that time of day I am less likely to fall over sideways and land face down in a pile of the Palinode's pillows when I am halfway through a magazine article. That sort of thing makes not taking my medication a foregone conclusion. I woke up yesterday morning and took the drug right on the new schedule, but this morning I didn't, because I never take drugs in the morning. This means that I have only taken my brain meds once in the last four days.

Who needs to take their medication for the crazies more than once in four days? Who? I bet you can guess. ME, THAT'S WHO.

I feel at once flat and hyper aware. Perhaps I am turning into a psychopath. Although, I don't really think so, because when my beloved stapler jambed earlier, I felt bad and tried to extricate the twisted staples from as quickly as possible so that it could go back to its stapling ways. It didn't like being jambed, you see. I felt sad for it.

The biggest sign that I am off today, and by "off" I mean "verging on nutjob", is the poem I concocted in my head while on my way to buy this lovely yogurt and granola parfait I am forcing down in spite of the distasteful grittiness of the blackberries. You may read this poem and get the impression that Omigod, she wants to touch old lady boobs!, but that's really not what I was thinking about. I was thinking about the deliciousness of bacon and all the things with which bacon goes well, and then I remembered something that I had heard about goat cheese wrapped in bacon, which is now all I want for my next meal, because, holy frack, GOAT CHEESE! BACON! I was thinking this while walking down a hallway when a lady with droopy boobs walked by wearing a sweater that accented her droopy-boobedness. It was one of those you-got-your-chocolate-in-my-peanut-butter moments, except that I just happened to get-her-boobs-in-my-bacon-thoughts.

Hold that image for a moment. Now hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Okay. Exhale. Let it go.

Why I Should Take My Medication Regularly, Exhibit A:

Droopy-boobed Lady, Let's Go Get Some Bacon-wrapped Goat Cheese Together

Droopy-boobed lady,
let's go get some bacon-wrapped goat cheese,
because that sweater you're wearing,
tied up the way it is under your breasts,
shows off the soft fall of old flesh,
and I want to be near that.
I know what the pearlized scars from change
look like on my thighs,
but I want to see those lines thin,
long and corrugated in toward one another,
ranging down your skin toward the nipple.
I would brush against those fine hairs
and roll soft skin between my thumb and forefinger
where it would feel papery and light as refined silk.
They would fall and hang apart against your belly,
looking this way and that,
less focused since they lost their fat,
and I would hold them together to see
where one was darker, more dimpled, harder.
But first, droopy-boobed lady, we'll do this right
and you and me'll go get some bacon-wrapped goat cheese together.

As a result of the above evidence, I promise, pinky swear, cross my heart and hope to die on my mother's grave, that I will take my medication when I go home. I will put the crazy down and step away from poetry. I swear it, because I have seriously disturbed myself.