Whatís it gonna be hospital or consignment shop?

Doris Day stormcloud scholar or birds help too

uproot the tower of flowering infernal disinformation

or has my medication station gone round the bend, again?

 

My computer is broke.

I hope youíre happy God, Austin, Dr. Fuckhead, M. Deity, broke, useless, psychotic, like theology, devil-on-the-monitor, white words on blue screen; fried, ruined, caput, broke, nice, nicer than nice.

 

Ok, Saturday morning readin up on scholarship for no other reason but to re-empower you, since I know everything I need to know by now. Except, what the fuck is this:

Tardive Dyskensia?

Ok, reader, we all know whatís been goin on with me. Are you satisfied with my diagnosis? I was too, til I came across this mental patient press release on Tardive Dyskensia, which mimics my symptoms (stand/fall, spasms, psychomotor retardation, white words on blue screen, inability to carry out voluntary movements) brought on by neuroleptic anti-psychotics (they do a tremendous job too, ya think?), disorder is incurable, unlovely, as in the people you ignore on buses twirling their arm in big circles, incurable, hits anywhere between 50-100% of patients who take neuroleptics long enough.

 

Am I on these? I dunno, are you? This would explain a lot wouldnít it?

Fifty drug trials, psychosis, best no-sex ever, donít ask me.

Surrounded by liars, data hoarders, stop hiding the data doctors, donít send me back to the public library, number one arena for acting out what you did to me, growin up absurd, lifelong home away from home, do not fuck with my public library please, thatís what you get for hiring librarians who donít know the difference between a simile and a metaphor, do your fuckin job twist, words pay your bills, you know how many of us would give our eye-teeth to be able to say that?

I pay my taxes, cop, you canít kick people out of the library, immoral, unsupportable, fuckin up my weltanschauung, move over Tori Amos, youíre not the only one with a special look for every occasion, how Ďbout the auburn Spy-Girl hairpiece today, red patent leather slingbacks, thatíll add 4 inches to my stature, dark coppertone fake tan, drop by the plastic surgeonís office-can we move up the tit job, doc, I need to get into the library, stat!

 

Fine, will find workin computers at library, make goddamn sure troublewaits shows up on every one of the sons-a-bitches, then hit Infotrack, look up tardive dyskensia, come home, find some way to tell you what you learned today.

Of course the article Iím readin here was penned by a headcase and one thing we do share in common is bein out of our fuckin tree. But think, how come no doctor the last 2 months has even mentioned the possibility, huh?

 

ďWell trouble, your problems echo somethin bad and serious and unlovely and crucifying, and while they are caused by nothin but the drugs I got you on, let me reassure you, no need to worry, youíre missin 1 of the 4 symptoms.Ē

 

If I thought you were half as stupid as you seem to think I am youíd be pretty insulted too old Wavey Arms-

No he never lies, what he does is paternalize, hoards data like heís guarding the priestly caste, scared Iíll trot out the conspiracy theories and bore him to snoresville.

Donít say nothin about this movement stopper, why? Because you canít can you? You donít know whether I have it or not, so tell me what you donít know, unclothed emperor, you ever heard of informed consent?

Come on, doc, get with the era in which you and I live, this is the modern world that Iíve learned about, Iím supposed to just close my eyes to the 24/7 information onslaught, what do you guys think happens in the moment when psych patients inadvertently stumble upon frightening statistics that beckon us to the bookshelves, rubberstampin as they do, our own treatment protocol? I thought you wanted to reduce my psychic destabilization. What next, confiscate my Replacements record collection? My one good dose of manhood, anyone remember level the hospital sky-high masculinity, is that where this is goin, people hanging around streetcorners after midnight, pushing Flipper elpees? You want psychosis, be my guest, Iíll give you psychosis fuckhead, whereís my shoes?

 

Love,

Pitchfork, incognito.

 

 

P.S.†† Ok back from the library, sorry doc false alarm, I donít have this disease YET.

You better get busy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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