Embrace your inner snake.

Monday morning I called my doctor's office in hysterics. Twice. Because that's how many times it took me to choke my phone number out correctly. I remember saying something like, "MY NAME IS KELLY AND I NEED HELP PLEASE HELP." My mom came over while I was waiting for the doctor to call. She mainly took the dog out and hugged me for three hours, promising that my soul is not black and charred, nobody is out to get me, it's all because of that Geraldo show I saw when I was four when the little girl got killed and left at the side of the road, and that I would once again feel human.

I made it to the doctor's office and left minus two vials [the black and red marble kind] of blood and holding approximately eighteen different prescriptions for various sedatives/nausea pills/seratonin-fixers/work excuses. The FIRST vial told us that I am DEFINATELY NOT - NO WAY POSSIBLY - pregnant. My lungs may be full of fluid, but my womb is empty. Bone dry. The SECOND vial was supposed to blame my anxiety disorder/ paranoid hysterical outbursts on my thyroid, which sadly proved false. But I knew that, anyways. I've been like this since I was four. Every so often, it's like my brain/psyche just needs to shed a few layers and begin anew. Like a snake. A really crazy snake. One who thinks that everyone is out to get him and the FBI have set up cameras in the dark window of the house across the street just to make sure he's behaving. Poor snake. The Man wants to crush him with his giant lawnmower of oppression but all he can do is tremble and count everything in sight.

The nice part of all this is that while I was de-crazyfying [I took TWO WHOLE DAYS!] I did nothing but sit on my couch and watch the entire first season of Popular and read the entire first half of Bellefleur. God bless TeeVee and Joyce Carol Oates. GOD BLESS.

Anyways. So.
The moral of my story:

Sedatives. Are. Good.

The End.