Sunday

Lately two contemplations have settled into my mind, always occurring to me one right after the other, as though they are somehow related. They are not related. Not really. But here they are:

1. I'm thinking that I need a drug, a prescription for some kind of drug. A smart drug. To alleviate the anger, anxiety and despair I get sometimes. I mean - I don't think that I am all that fucked up. I've managed to keep myself out of a cage so far. But maybe I could be doing better. Seems like everybody is on somethin. I don't know. Maybe I should just continue to take these problems on - on my own - clean - take them on head on, Bobby vs. The Storm, or some such lugubrious shit . . . but this first contemplation, which as I said is always followed by the second, is this: I worry and worry over what I should say to the psychiatrist. He'll ask me all these questions - ask me to describe my mental condition to him. Should I exaggerate? Should I sit there and calculate my answers? If my condition seems too severe, he'll have me locked up. If it does not seem severe enough, he won't give me any drugs. It seems like a weird weird form of negotiation.

2. The second contemplation in this inseparable pair is this: I wonder about true crime shows. America's Most Wanted, etc. I wonder how often the actor who portrays a criminal in the crime re-enactment gets arrested - by mistake - The actor instead of the actual criminal. That shit would suck. You're a struggling actor who barely gets roles. You finally land a re-enactment gig, make a little money. You go out and celebrate, get a little drunk, a waitress looks at you a little funny, makes a phone call, and you stagger out of the bar, and thirty cops rush you and start fucking you up, and then they stuff you in a police car because they think you're a child molester. Tough break.

Well. That's about it. That should give you a feel for where I'm at, like, mentally or whatever. I get the drug thought, then I get the crime show thought. And I don't know why.

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