“That was all about anger,” said Grant this morning, referring to last night’s fireworks which were louder and more numerous by far than any we have previously heard here. I agreed. I had exactly the same thought. They were not “fun fireworks”. They were set off in quick succession, a fast series of loud bangs that seemed to say “Fuck you. We’re mad!”
I can’t say I disagree, though I daresay our thoughts vary slightly.
Governor Cuomo had reminded, just days ago, that fireworks are illegal and dangerous, although they were readily available in our local supermarket. Not that I approve of the wretched things. I think they are anti-social, and they frighten animals terribly. And injure people every year.
For once, last night, I wasn’t pissed off by the noise, thinking “yes, I feel that way too.”
What am I mad about? Mostly that man. If you can call him such. He’s about as much of a man as that other blob in North Korea. Two peas in a pod. I am offended to be of the same species as a creature that can spit such hatred with every word. And lie, and lie, and lie, never being held in account for it.
It’s not just him and his lies and all the confusion about viruses.
It’s the general way people get pushed around by money grubbing big business and politicians in their pockets.
Ordinary people don’t matter any more.
Decency has departed.
But at least I can tell the truth.
The truth is I am sorry for myself, and not proud of it.
Reminding myself of everybody who is worse of just makes me feel worse.
Today I feel kind of how Willow looks in these pictures.
Experience tells me it’s a chemical reaction to the adjustment in my medication, although I had not expected it to kick in so soon.
Malaise, perhaps you would call it.
I just don’t feel well.
But it’s being on the edge of tears all the time that’s really bothersome. As if knifed in the heart.
It doesn’t help that my brain makes me dream awful sad things, as if I need to be tortured some more.
Time for that again.
God, it’s a bore.
The doctor just reduced my dosage, saying a pharmacist would “get in touch” , to sort out my “weaning”.
Just like that.
No consideration given for what the result might be.
How about talking to the pharmacist first?
He’s young, newly indoctrinated, out to put things right. Get the old bat off oxy.
Hey, young man…the old bat is a person. (Who apparently can’t speak.)
Why be mad at him? He’s doing his job and I’m just one more client in a long boring day. As usual, I allowed myself to be intimidated. I am my own worst enemy.
I’ve been down this road before. It will get better. Eh, Willow?