The pill they’ve got me on worries me. They call it one of the “dirty TCAs,” tricyclic antidepressants from the first wave with all the bad side effects. So now, it burns when I cum, I cum, I cum, I cum when I do anything related to the sex type thing. Ejaculation AKA splooging AKA jizzing AKA creaming one’s jeans AKA the most pleasurable part for a man supposedly and I’m inches away from tearing up like a kid who touched the stove after Mommy expressly told him not to. With the sting of salt in my eyes, I wasn’t sure if I should get a cold compress or a Kleenex to mop up. If that wasn’t the worst, I spent most of yesterday without a hard-on for the first time in 15 years. Instead of staring around a classroom thinking about what the brunette, the actress, might look like without a shirt on, I was thinking about some morose shit like the futility of existence and how flawed the search for meaning is. My thoughts a carousel as they spun from the philosophic sublime to the pedestrian facts that I’ve had cottonmouth since I started six days prior and that I haven’t taken a good, healthy shit since two days before that. My nose has been stuffed up for about as long too and I can’t take antihistamines for fear of a fatal interaction. The anxiety, the depression and the stomach aches that it was supposed to cure are sort of gone. Mostly the tummy rumbles and I’m more stoner-mellow-placid now, but I think this is the most melancholy I’ve been in awhile. Speaking of which, I can’t even toke up, because I might go into cardiac arrest. So I’m going to the doctor on Tuesday and I’m going to switch to Prozac, a name you can trust from your mouth to God’s ears, Tom Cruise.
Color Bars Are The New Dry Bars
2 years ago