It was a blast furnace hot glorious Southern California Spring day. I mostly stayed indoors and worked. With the windows open for cross-ventilation the cat was in a state of delirious desire. When I stepped out after sunset the smell of the jasmine was physically overpowering.
The world is full of promise when the plants are all getting some.
H. was especially delicious in her Spring Preppie outfit. You give me fever, girl.
Tomorrow I go see a head doctor. I’m worried. Not because I think he’s a bad doctor or anything, but because his office staff can’t seem to figure out the basics of health insurance. I’m afraid that they’ll try to extort $500 from me or claim I’m in an HMO or something out of sheer incompetence. Anyway the plan is to see if I should stop taking the little pink pills, or take some orange or taupe ones instead, or just wear magnets on my head. I’m very wary of psychiatrists because of the deadly combination of medical hubris and mental health quackery they sometimes have. Hope this one is better.
The worst thing about the state I’m in lately is that life is basically intolerable and must be fixed immediately and of course not only is this not possible, but there’s no guarantee that anything will be “fixed” by any definition at any time, ever. And, you know, people want you to make hopeful noises, even the professionals involved. I had a sort of a tiff with the therapist last week because she kept wanting me to commit to the idea of getting better and I was thinking “well, it didn’t work last time, why should I promise you it will work this time? aren’t you the one making promises around here?”
It’s bad enough being a patient instead of a worthwhile human, but don’t make me promise that your voodoo will work on me. Manage your own damned expectations.
I give love a bad name.