Samples of Stupidity

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 9; Verse 6

"Leave behind your foolishness and begin to live;

learn how to be wise."

---

CHIPPED WISDOM:

Dear God,

Are you fucking kidding me?  

I know all creatures are beautiful in your eyes, or equal, or something to that effect, but, really-- am I on the same playing field as the guy who created this ad?  I am composed of the same atoms and carbon-based material?  Did he eat graham crackers and water (milk is for goyim, even four-year-olds know that) in pre-school, just like I did?  Did he wear little Osh-Kosh overalls and did he cling and clutch to his mommy, well into his mid-twenties, like I did?  Does the bit of skin in between his eyebrows need regular maintenance in order to belie his Middle Eastern roots and keep him off the Homeland Security's terrorism watch list?  Is he blogging away the angst he should have outgrown over a decade-and-a-half ago while his children resist the seductive song of the sandman's sultry siren in the next room?  

Tell me, truly, ex-Special Agent Starling....

I realize, of course, that there is an air of superiority in the tone of this blog post.  I won't deny it, but I won't make it any more superior by saying "I shan't deny it," because, let's face it, that would be too much.  I suppose that feeling superior to anyone, (even if it's a guy chained to a musty desk in some dank basement creating ads for "natural ways to boost testosterone") must mean that my medication is working to some degree, which is good, because it's fucking expensive enough-- and that's with insurance.  

When I cried (almost literally) poor to my psychiatrist, he left the room-- I presumed, to return with a firearm to Old Yeller me up good-- but instead he came back with a cascading armful of Viibryd samples.  

"If my math is right," he said, and I prayed that it was, because mine never is unless it involved Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and the answer is always "6"), "this will set you straight for about ten weeks.  Just come back when you run out-- you don't even have to see me."

"Is this guy legal?" I thought to myself, albeit fleetingly, as I hungrily grabbed all the samples from him, dropping one on the floor.

I asked him if this was an ethical thing to do.  He looked at me.  I tried to dance around the fact that I'm white and employed, unlike many of the people I have often observed in his West Philly waiting room.  He smiled at me.

"That's cute, but you're not depriving these people of anything.  I have enough samples of this to keep you good for at least a few years and, let's face it, the shitty medical assistance that most of these people get gives them better prescription coverage than you have.  Sick, right?"

It was, I had to agree.

There's a lot of things in this world that are wrong and silly, sick or bizarre.  I don't need to tell you that.  You're in the shit, you live it.  You have eyes, you eat Reeses Peanut Butter Cups.  You know.  You're like me, and you're like that guy who designed the stupid testosterone ad with the hot blonde chick in the babydoll dress and she wears the boots and everything is going fine and the Basset is whining and the babies are still chirping and Pandora doesn't give a shit that I don't want to hear that Bach right now but like my mother says "everything will turn out okay in the end.  

And we all know what that means. 

It's all good, though-- just try this weird trick and take your performance to the next level. 

I'm Trying to Look Like Slim

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 12, Verse 1

"To learn, you must want to be taught.

To refuse reproof is stupid."

---

CHIPPED WISDOM:

The psychiatrist likes to ask if I'm "cured yet".

Maybe it was cute on the first follow up visit (it wasn't really) but it certainly wasn't on the third, and especially not after he kept me waiting for thirty-two minutes, only to see me for a grand total of three-and-a-half.  

"Well," I said, crossing my legs like a girl the way I do, "I think I'm cured in a manner of speaking."

"Yeah?" he said, staring confusedly at the keys on his flip phone, which I wanted to grab out of his hand and eat.

"It's cured me of a desire to talk about myself."

He furrowed his brow-- you know, wrinkled it up a little bit, put his phone down in his lap and he looked at me.

"Well, that's a little unusual," he said blandly before adding, for good measure, "Maybe you're incurable." 

Cute, isn't he?

---

It is, I have to admit, getting to be a little much.  I mean, I go to therapy once every other week-- every week, if I'm feeling someone shy of thrifty, I see a psychiatrist-- what is it-- every two weeks to talk about pills that do nothing for me-- and I blog about myself twice a week.  That's enough to make anyone who isn't a complete, bow-wrapped narcissist throw the hell up.  So I'm giving serious consideration to bagging the whole enterprise: therapy, psych, the meds, all of it.  Who was I before?  A skinny, sour little bastard.  Who am I now?  Well, I think you can see where this is going.  Since, however, I am getting awfully sick of talking about myself but still, apparently, like to write, I suppose I ought to spend tonight talking about somebody who isn't me, myself, or I.  

But, who?  Who's the lucky little fuckeroo?

It's Veterans' Day, so I thought maybe I'd talk about my father.  He's a veteran, after all.  Of the Six Day War and the Yom Kippur War.  You know, not an American veteran.  He's American now, but he wasn't then.  So I don't know that he counts.  I don't know what he thinks about on Veterans' Day.  I don't know if it means anything to him.  Probably not, since other "days" that are applicable to him: his birthday and Father's Day, for example, he eschews with a certain vile, vulgar verbosity.

"FACK DAT SHIT!" he screams, twisting his face in disgust, "BUNCHA FACKIN' RETARD DAY, PLEASE!  LIKE I NEED SOME FACKIN' ASSHOLE TO TELL ME TO FEEL SPECIAL?!  GIVE ME A BREAK ALREADY!"

And you're standing there holding a card or a present or something and then he kisses you tenderly on the cheek.

"I love you, Mummy.  Thees ees bee-yoo-teeful."

I'm not really related to many other veterans, I don't think.  My mother's father was in the Navy, as were his brothers.  I'm not sure they saw much combat.  My great uncle Morris was, though, shot in the stomach in South Philly by some asshole who was trying to rob his fruit stand.  Legend has it that Morris collapsed on top of the guy and wouldn't get up until the police got there.  

That's what my people do: we scream obscenities, then kiss you, or we lie on top of people and bleed.

---

I don't think I'd do too well in the armed forces.  Fortunately, I don't think it'll ever come up.  Between the asthma, flat feet, scoliosis, mental health "problems" and the projectile bed-wetting I think I'm pretty much off Uncle Sam's dance card, but, if it did, I think there'd be some problems.  I don't mean necessarily with cowardice.  There have been plenty of situations that occurred at the hospital that required me to summon up some courage and risk getting seriously assaulted by some psychotic guy (or gal) who was much bigger, stronger, and hyped up than I, not to mention someone who didn't have to play by crisis intervention rules, and somehow I did it.  So I don't think that would be the main problem, I think the main problem would be that I wouldn't know where to shoot.  

See, I know what you're supposed to do in the army.  You're supposed to be there, standing there, holding that M-4, or RPG or whatever the fuck it is, all square-jawed, trying to look like Slim, and I don't think I'd be able to pull it off.  I'd probably kill someone I'm not supposed to.  I'm not a real visual learner-- and I hear in the military they use a lot of maps and pictures and visuals and shit like that.  But see, I'm not a very spatial learner either.  And forget kinesthetic.  My body's about as useful as a eighty-seven-year-old paperclip that's been left out in the rain.  And auditory?  When people talk to me I tune them out almost instantaneously.  I asked a coworker a question today.

"Didn't we talk about this, like, on Friday?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered, "but I wasn't listening."

"I'm gonna kick your fucking ass," she said.  Then she repeated what she told me.

"Okay," I said, "got it."  Then I stood up, walked four steps towards the door and forgot most of what she'd just said.  She was talking about 50/50 raffles.  I could care less about 50/50 raffles.  I won one once.  I bought tickets, but I didn't know what I was buying them for.  Then someone gave me $96 a couple hours later.  It was the greatest fully clothed moment of my life.  

---

He wanted to up my dose, or change to something "a little more potent."

"No, I don't think so," I said, staring at the ten year old phone he was playing with, "let's just stick with this and see what happens."

"Hm," he said, pushing buttons, "most people aren't that patient."

"I'm not patient," I said, "I just don't care."