I visited my psychiatrist today. I like playing “what are YOU in for?” in the waiting room. He shares offices with at least four other psychiatrists and I have no idea what specialties they practice. Some regulars are the father and son who are trying to fake a reasonably good relationship; an assortment of very twitchy young women; a guy who is very loud and friendly to everyone; and several people who are very old.
The unhappy father and son were here today, discussing military hardware. The father doesn’t know very much, and the son kept asking him gimmes like “when did they send off the atomic bomb” and Dad would say “oh, a pretty long time ago, a while ago.”
My doctor was very late, and the patient before me was finally wheeled out 30 minutes after I should have been seen. The guy looked 100 years old, was in wheelchair, and had one foot in a foam brace. He barely responded to stimuli. This guy needs a psychiatrist? He needs a big jar of Vicodin and a place to die.
I got a new drug which is called Cymbalta. This is either the site of a battle between the Turks and the Serbs in 1508, or a Brazilian progressive rock band. With this new medicine I am now simultaneously modifying my serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine mechanisms. Just watch me now.
I’m going to go find Zen Arcade and blast it into my face at > 100 dB. Let’s see what that does for the ol’ dopamine.