i was gonna sleep, ha, felt like hypocrite, pushing people all the time, stupitidy is a choice, no excuse, so choose, then i will too, what a bitch, huh.
have done nothin w/my time here but be escapist bad-girl cliche, you get too old for it, ok, what's next?
fuck that shit, sorry too cool.
i am doing my work right here, make up for existence on planet X. now you suffer, ha.
if i talk about my brain will that make it go away?
ok, i have to divest, no room for all night re-runs.
first a sweet tid-bit about my pdoc. he looked over the title page, chuckling, see, i thought he was gonna commit or arrest me or something, and all he asks is maybe some day he can be Dr. Unfuckhead. not bad huh? if anyone can do it it's him, god uses him, obvious.
Last March me and Dr. F decide i need to know what's wrong with my brain, it's in the brain, you can tell. getting smaller, stupider, can't put it together, can't make sense, sometimes can't lick envelope, never know orientation anymore, north side, south side, house, Fourth street, earth, limbo, hell, lost. it's just turning into music.
escapism? no. no volition.
come back, free will, come on back, i fought too hard to lose you now.
ok, so we'll get a baseline, find out if you have Alzheimer’s or some dementia, etc.
Then we pretended that that's just what we did, ha.
Scared, pretend, ok, here's the floor-plan, let's follow it.
my boyfriend, you know i have a boyfriend now, right? you call him mine and if i ever catch you even looking crossways at him i get to show you the way i was raised.
okk, so he says i am down to my last cigarette and i ran out of patience by the end of second grade. but he said it better, ha. some days i want him to keep track of me, other times i just want to get on with it.
first I.Q. results in, testers say
wow, three time loser, like some bluesy singer of bluesy music.
I don't get this at all
bigger longer test, nicer doc too:
i thought i had dibs on my brain
finer, bigger, longer I.Q.
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