Bitch-Slapped by a Fish

This morning during the twilight state of being between sleep and fully awake, the time my brain is busily coming up with preposterous what-if scenarios (what if I was forced to choose between The Boy and my Not-So-Secret Lady Love, and in deciding I was given two additional caveats being if I chose The Boy  I would be able to quit my job and devote my life to my artistic endeavors and volunteering or if I chose The Lady, I would pretty much have all the knowledge of the world stored in my brain both past and present and could easily make assumptions on the future based on my immense understanding of all things...just who would I choose?), and while I was ruminating on whatever what-if nugget I had going this morning, I suddenly thought, "The folds in the comforter feels like fingers on my thigh."  How melodramatic!  Thank you, drugs.

I started writing a lot of blah blah about being on anti-anxiety medications, but then got bored by it.  Obviously not fit for reading by others.  However, I will say that Wellbutrin is a fucking miracle.  I've tried so many drugs, and this one, boy howdy, it makes me feel good.  I just started it on Saturday, and my psychiatrist said it would work fast, and she wasn't lying.  I woke up on Sunday, and I was ready to get out of bed.  I woke up on Monday, and only snoozed once.  I got to work early.  I was chipper, people made comments.  Today Emma's mom said I looked better than she has ever seen me.  My allergies are still making my teeth ache and my eyes blur.  Yet, I'm awake!  Totally awake.  It's not perfect.  I'm sure I'd still be freaked out if someone told me to go buy a Wedding Present t-shirt from David Gedge himself (thank you, Boy).  It also makes me not really fall asleep at night.  It's a sensation I've never felt before--it's not that caffeine-fueled freak-out where one is so fucking desperate to go to sleep but the body just won't do it.  It is like I'm stuck between dreaming and waking, and my mind is just poking around in every corner of my brain and it talks to itself all night long.  I need to put a notebook and pen by my pillow, because there are all these words I must capture, but can't when I finally surface.  I worry that I may crash if I am not able to cross the border in to a deeper sleep.  However, right now, it is fun to feel awake and not the normal cranky old lady I was becoming.

My biggest complaint about the Wellbutrin is how it is affecting my language skills in that I keep typing words that aren't right (just then, I wrote "write" and had to fix).  Maybe this is how dyslexia feels. I really don't know.  My brain sees the right thing, but my hands type out something slightly different.  Homonyms are terrible for me right now.  So is "now" and "know."  I hardly ever rewrite anything, which is why I'm a terrible writer.  Though, I enjoy very much editing other people's writing.  Anyway.  What I'm saying is I need everyone to be kind and not judge me too harshly right now.
I can only hope that this is just an early side-effect of the meds.

At work this morning, I got to hear the most amazing true-life outdoor adventure of Hampster Hater's morning swim in the springs.  Seems a fish totally bitch slapped his face.  You may think that this is just Grumples trying to be funny and make a good story of her totally boring workplace, but I'm not, I swear.  He was swimming along, and then felt like he had been punched.  He shot up out of the water to see if there was another swimmer around, and no one was around for at least 50 feet.  He has a bruise blooming beside his nose, and a long red mark that looks like someone tried to snap a cigarette out of his mouth with a whip and missed and hit his cheek instead.  I look forward to making fun of him some more tomorrow.  Fish: 1. Human: 0.   Or a t-shirt that says, "I went to Barton Springs and all I got was bitch slapped by a fish.  I imagine fishes with one fin in the air, slapping high-fives and cheering. 

Every day I find more and more mistakes that Twit has made.  It is very frustrating to try and sort out what she has done or hasn't done.  My boss keeps excuses her crappy work, saying that Twit is in her forties and was in a high-risk pregnancy.  Sigh.  I guess I'll have to wait a year or so for Twit to go on vacation, so I can prove it's not the pregnancy.

The fifth floor smelled like gerbils.  It made me want to go to a pet store and look at the kittens up for adoption (PetSmart is smart, Petco is no).  I won't do this because The Boy is not ready.  I just have this hole in my life where the Orange Lover belonged, and I still have all this love to give, and I want to give it to a new kitty.  It's too soon.  I know.  It's just been an emotionally fragile day.  We miss him so very much.  It's only been three months but can feel like it was yesterday.