Arglebargle or Foofora?

The staff at current Contract Gig think that I haven't been coming in because I'm sick. Sometimes, perception becomes reality which is frustrating. I haven't been coming in because it is slooooooooow.

I e-mailed the lawyers at Contract Gig to politely remind them I'm available for work yesterday. Then this morning, I remembered that, due to the craptastic e-mail system, the office e-mail sometimes doesn't receive AOL e-mails (the Contract Gig's IT system is a rant for another day). Anyway, I called the receptionist and the first thing she said was "How are you feeling?" Obviously, perception is becoming reality. I said, "OK" and then asked her to send out an e-mail to the lawyers saying I'm available for work so that the lawyers don't think I'm still sick. Last thing I need is for the Contract Gig to send work elsewhere because they think I'm dying of consumption.

In the meantime, I know I should be doing something constructive, like write my friggin' novel. Instead, I'm still in hands over my ears screaming "Lalalalalala" mode.

Here Comes The Flood

The rainfall in Los Angeles during the last four days has supposedly already surpassed the average annual rainfall. Floods are carrying away homes (mostly mobile), hills are falling and cards are crashing into the ocean. Luckily, I've been at home which is getting rather musty since the windows are closed. Yup, home and dry and trying to just chill about the job situation.

Yes, they added me on their malpractice insurance policy. Yes, they love my work. Yes, they sent me flowers when I was sick. So no worries, right? But on the other hand, they're disorganized enough to use Macs for the office. So all their actions could be sound and fury.

Anyway, my sister tells me that what I've been feeling since I've been Lexapro is probably placebo effect. SSRI's usually take 6 weeks to be effective. Well, even if it placebo effect, I guess I'll take it--no highs or lows, just a rather dull average. Much like this entry.

For nonmedicated takes on the legal profession, take a gander over at Rufus' Running With Lawyers. The man has a legal gig that most lawyers dream of (well, next to being a porn lawyer)--in-house counsel. Why is this position so coveted by most lawyers? Because you get to boss the same type of jerkoff partners who were screwing with your life as an associate, plus you get to have a life.

Atmosphere

Today I'm doing my best impression of me my senior year at Duke on a rainy day. Joy Division is playing in the background. I got my halogen lamp at max lighting in my bedroom. I'm reading while listening to the rain, doing my best to to ignore whatever the future holds.

Alex Descends Into Hell For A Bottle Of Milk

For the first time in my life, I am taking medication for depression. I know, this is a surprise for most of you in a "you mean you weren't on medication before" way, you bastards. But with health issues, Her leaving me and a slowdown at work, I needed to do something.

Lexapro--sounds like a legal research software. Like prozac, Lexapro is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI). Serotonin, to put it in layman's terms, makes you happy. Block the reuptake of serotonin, the more serotonin there is flowing in the brain. The more serotonin in the brain, the happier you are. Theoretically. Anyway, Lexapro is supposedly different from prozac in the lexapro is more geared to depression. If prozac is coke, Lexapro is coffee.

So what does Day One in Better Living Through Chemistry feels like? It doesn't feel like it's 72 degrees in my brain. My first thought is numb, but that's not accurate. I don't feel lethargic or melancholy. My heart still feels sad, but it's like it's not my heart. I also react normally around people--I smile when I speak; I'm articulate. But inside me, it feels like there's not really a me, that I'm on auto-pilot. Maybe this is a placebo effect. It is the first day after all. Maximum benefit takes 4 to 6 weeks. But I feel like what a clinical psychiatrist would characterize as a light disassociative effect. I'm taking a break from myself.

Inertia Creeps

Heart results tomorrow. Been added on to ContractGig's malpractice insurance. Somewhere beyond the sea. I'm tired.

Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

I want instant karma to exist. None of this "Well when she's thirty she'll realize she made a mistake" bullshit. None of this wistful looking back as found in TV melodramas with the actors in bad elderly makeup looking back at their youthful indiscretions bullshit. None of this slo-mo justice that won't directly matter to you by the time karma hits (IF it hits) bullshit.

I want karma to hit fast and hit hard. I want every cruelty punished before a teardrop can hit the ground. I want every injustice corrected before the heart turns bitter.

I might as well wish for peace, love and understanding and threeway with hot swedish twins while I'm at it.

Only Forward

"When I say I'm tired, you see, I don't just mean that I'm tired. I have this disease. It's nothing new; people have had it for centuries. You know when you've got nothing in particular to do, nothing to stay awake for? When your life is just routine and it doesn't feel like it belongs to you, how you feel tired and sad and listless and everything seems like too much effort? Well, it's like that, but much worse, because everything is much worse these days." -- Stark from Only Forward by Michael Marshall Smith

All the cases from the latest ContractGig got pushed back, so the last thing the permanents want to do is give work to the contract guy, no matter how funny, talented and wicked smart the contract guy is. She walked out of my life to "explore" a week ago--and no, being told that I'm the first man to ever make Her feel like a woman is not any consolation. Not having much to do and no one to go home to is NOT a good combination.

I know, be proactive! Put on a smile and open your heart to the world! You're free, my man, free! And I'm trying. Hey, back on the saddle on Match and Okcupid! But there's only so many e-mails you can send out to so many profiles, and let's face it, I don't know a soul who as met the one who stops the world for them on these sites.

Unfortunately, even though I'd rather keep writing about my broken heart and whatnot, I know whinging gets really tired really fast. And since I can't drink alcohol (well, not as much as I used to) because of the high blood pressure, I might need some assistance from the wonderful pharmaceutical industry. Maybe get some Prozac, perhaps some Xanax as well. Better living through chemistry!

I'm Radioactive

No caffeine for me today, I have a nuclear stress test tomorrow! That entails the hospital injecting me with a radioactive isotope twice--once at rest, and then once on a treadmill with gamma x-rays being directed at me both times. This is done so they can see whether there are any heart issues I should be crappin' in my pants about.

I'm really hoping for some gnarly superpowers from the all that radiation, like:

1. To make people get what they deserve and not what they want (ha ha red states-no more pork barrel for you parasitic fuckers);
2. To make women fucking wet when they meet a nice and decent guy;
3. Super novel writing ability;
4. To know what love is (I just put that in there to make you readers have Foreigner run through your heads all day, so suffer);
5. Flying (d'uh).

Deep Distant and Pure

How to feel like you're on the moon if you have high blood pressure:

While sitting--
1. Take 320 mg of diovan;
2. Take 20 mg of furosemide;
3. Take 20 mg of enaperil;
4. Take 100 mg of toprol;
5. Wash down with beer;
6. Stand up really fast.

I call the cocktail a "Neil Armstrong."

I Am NOT Drinking Any Merlot

I resolve this year to write an entry a day in this blog, tho' the entry might be as short as this:

Hey Dubois, I finally saw Sideways, and yeah, you're right--it is like watching a roadtrip with you and me. Grrrr. At least I get to bone Virginia Madsen.

Seventeen Tracks And I'm Tired Of This Game

Being raised in a not particularly religious family, Christmas was never that big of a deal for me. Don't get me wrong--presents are nice and I manage to spend Christmas day with family and/or friends. But if I had to spend Christmas Day alone, no biggie. For some reason though, the day that really freaks me out, the day (or to be more accurate, the night) that I absolutely cannot spend alone is New Years' Eve.

I don't know why this is. Maybe it's the need to divert my attention from the fact that another year has ended and that I still haven't found the one who has made me stop looking (or for this year, that I found the one but she needed to "explore" after I helped her get out a dead-end relationship). Maybe it's all the media images of Times Square that has foisted this image of crowds and merriment that has imprinted on my weak mind. Maybe I'm just a needy bugfuck prick.

In any event, except for the last two years, I've been able to find parties to go to. I manage to pass the New Year without being too maudlin or weepy. However, it seems like my group of friends are beginning to treat New Years' Eve just like any other day. One friend is chillin' by his lonesome at home. Another friend told me that, prior to getting married, he spent a couple of New Years' Eve by himself. Is it that after turning 30, we're just winding down? Is is that a West Coast New Years' Eve is a bit of a let down after seeing the ball drop in Times Square at 9pm local time?

Anyway, I'm not about to bust the balls of my friends who have invited me to hang at their pad this year--especially considering is the alternative is drinking at home with nothing to keep me company other than thoughts of Her in Las Vegas having fun. Those type of thoughts without adult supervision could lead baby getting into the pills, and having my stomach pumped isn't an attractive option.

There's a little annoying spark of something that purports to be the voice of reason in my head. It says, "Well Marty, if you'd rather go out, then why don't you? Go out to a club, open your wounded heart to all the love flowing within, become a he-slut and hit on anything without an adam's apple! Open your inner sexy beast and be a fuck machine for tonight, forever and always!"

Sounds reasonable, donnit'? Argue against this voice, and I sound like some lameass FOB trying to justify being a lameass. But you know what? Fuck it. My heart still feels like a sucking chest wound. You can't run a marathon the day after being shot in the leg the day before. You can't be a sexy beast with rabies. So maybe I need to be a lamess. And maybe that voice of reason is just morphine.

John Of The Dead

95% is in numb shock still. 3% is in absolute shaking anger. The 2% snarkiness clinging on to life wants to bring you this witty observation about one of life's cliches. Here it is:

You know that saying that goes something to the effect of "Well, everyone has been through [insert painful thing that everyone has been through--e.g., a broken heart, getting fired, awaiting for the results of an STD test]." The purpose of that statement is to make you feel better by letting you know that you are not alone. Here by example is the inherent weakness in that statement. If everyone had their left testicle squeezed in a vice at some point of their life, that doesn't make getting your left testicle currently being squeezed by a vice feel any better, does it? No, instead you still are going through excrutiating pain that shoots through your body and is so intense that your left eyeball feels like it is going to pop out. (I understand that this analogy may be lost on any female readers, but fuck it, I'm a heartbroken mess so pardon me if I can't think of any unisex analogies).

What, you'd rather have the 95% back writing this blog? Nuts to you (no pun intended).

Le Juge

"You need to find peace. You need to move on from me."--Snippet of my last conversation with Her.

Times when I had peace in my life:

I was nine. A school day off due to snow. I spent the whole afternoon with the neighborhood kids building snow forts and sledding down the hill. Night came early, so by five, all the kids started to trudge home. My house was at the end of the cul de sac, so there was no hurry to get home before dinner. I could take my time. The sodium street lamps flickered on. There was just me under orange lights and the winter darkness, watching the snow fall. In the quiiet, I swear I could hear each snowflake fall, sounding like tiny little bells as they hit the ground.

Junior year of high school. Listening to "Carolyn's Fingers" by the Cocteau Twins as an afternoon spring breeze blew through my bedroom window.

New Years' Day, 2002. Driving up the 5 from Orange County to Sunnyvale on New Year's Day, traffic suddenly halted four hours in. From my car to the horizon, all I could see was a still line of cars and red brake lights on asphalt dividing bare earth and harvested farm land to the east and jagged brown hills to the west. Fog slowly crept down the hills. Winter sunlight, gold and buttery that cast a fine sheen of nostalgia over the California Central Valley, started giving way to clouds and the beginning of a blue dusk. I had Zero 7's "Destiny" on repeat.

November 2004. I was at Her apartment, watching TV while She slept. As soon as I tunrned off the TV, She said in a sleepy tone, "Come here baby. You have no idea how much I love you." Then we held each other listening to each other's breathing slow until we fell asleep.

"She betrayed you and you never understood why. And you kept on loving her."--Valintine Dussaut to the Judge, Trois Couleurs: Rouge

Under Pressure

More later, I promise! But for now, a list of what has happened to me in the last two weeks.
1) Admitted into hospital for malignant hypertension (fancy schmancy way of saying fucking high blood pressure). The norm is 120/80. Mine was 250/180.
2) Spent a night in ICU, though I got to watch the Duke v. Valparaiso game in the morning with an IV drip in my arm. Surprisingly, no one complained about my yelling (it helps to be the only ambulatory and conscious patient in the ICU).
3) Not just one, but TWO twenty-four hour urine collections. AKA Hey, I'm peeing in a jug!!! AKA My imitation of Howard Hughes. AKA I will never be able to drink Gatorade again.
4) Not showering for 4 days due to the electrodes stuck on me. AKA Look at me, I have the sanitary habits of a Frenchman! AKA Dude, what smells like a cheesesteak hoagie stuck in the sun for four days? What, oh, sorry man.
5) Taking enough pills to lower the blood pressure of a stressed out elephant.
6) Having my blood pressure get lowered too much due to aforementioned pills.
7) Feeling really faint due to lowered blood pressure. AKA My impression of a sensitive lily of a southern debutante hearing something just simply scandalous. AKA My God, it's full of stars!

Don't Say It's A Comeback

No, I'm not dead yet. I have been buried with work, saddled with a loser case (it's like that incompetent mess of an asshole summer associate that your firm is forced to hire because he's the son of a major client--except in case form), and riddled with the afflictions you'd find on a fifty-year-old Jersey mobster sustained by a daily diet of hoagies and garlic knots (peptic ulcer, waking up in the middle of the night hyperventilating, shortness of breath, did I mention the friggin' bleeding peptic ulcer).

Once I deal with this loser case, I think I might take the rest of the year off and just friggin' relax until I can get my blood pressure down and stop having those task dreams (you know the dreams, where your mind decides to focus on one thought or task--if I press the green button I will sleep, if I finish this memo I will sleep--so you press the green button in your dream or you try to type of this memo and your mind goes round and round and round). I'm beginning to feel like the Nameless Narrator of Fight Club with all the sleep trouble I am having. I am Marty Stark's bleeding stomach. I am Marty Stark's migraine headache. I am Marty Stark's diminished lung capacity. Sheesh. At least I've lost some weight.