Yeah, pretty sure this antidepressant isn’t my bag.
“Poodle? What was that? And in a railway carriage? Dear me,” said Nastasia, thoughtfully, as though trying to recall something to mind.
“Oh, just a silly, little occurrence, really not worth telling, about Princess Bielokonski’s governess, Miss Smith, and — oh, it is really not worth telling!”
“No, no, we must have it!” cried Nastasia merrily.
“Yes, of course,” said Ferdishenko. “C’est du nouveau.”
“Ardalion,” said Nina Alexandrovitch, entreatingly.
“Papa, you are wanted!” cried Colia.
“Well, it is a silly little story, in a few words,” began the delighted general. “A couple of years ago, soon after the new railway was opened, I had to go somewhere or other on business. Well, I took a first-class ticket, sat down, and began to smoke, or rather CONTINUED to smoke, for I had lighted up before. I was alone in the carriage. Smoking is not allowed, but is not prohibited either; it is half allowed — so to speak, winked at. I had the window open.”
“Suddenly, just before the whistle, in came two ladies with a little poodle, and sat down opposite to me; not bad-looking women; one was in light blue, the other in black silk. The poodle, a beauty with a silver collar, lay on light blue’s knee. They looked haughtily about, and talked English together. I took no notice, just went on smoking. I observed that the ladies were getting angry — over my cigar, doubtless. One looked at me through her tortoise-shell eyeglass.
“I took no notice, because they never said a word. If they didn’t like the cigar, why couldn’t they say so? Not a word, not a hint! Suddenly, and without the very slightest suspicion of warning, ‘light blue’ seizes my cigar from between my fingers, and, wheugh! out of the window with it! Well, on flew the train, and I sat bewildered, and the young woman, tall and fair, and rather red in the face, too red, glared at me with flashing eyes.
“I didn’t say a word, but with extreme courtesy, I may say with most refined courtesy, I reached my finger and thumb over towards the poodle, took it up delicately by the nape of the neck, and chucked it out of the window, after the cigar. The train went flying on, and the poodle’s yells were lost in the distance.”
“Oh, you naughty man!” cried Nastasia, laughing and clapping her hands like a child.
“Bravo!” said Ferdishenko. Ptitsin laughed too, though he had been very sorry to see the general appear. Even Colia laughed and said, “Bravo!”
“And I was right, truly right,” cried the general, with warmth and solemnity, “for if cigars are forbidden in railway carriages, poodles are much more so.”
Giving Strattera a shot. 40mg; dosage doubling later this week.
I don’t have a good way to describe it? I’ve been searching online for an experiential report that I could read; I couldn’t find any that are descriptive enough, so I guess this is a common problem. Anger doesn’t seem to be as much of a problem as it was for the methylphenidate… I feel perky? Perkier than I like, certainly. I’ll have to try to turn that into a different form of being.
Here are my bedsheets in all their fractured glory
Throw them aside to see the story
So many inches of well-cultivated topography
And see! It is the seat of all my plans
To sit and draw upon all hands
Whenever I must listen close
And I just don’t know
That is my honest refrain
But I will pack the snow
And breathe until it’s rain
The golden veins that criss-cross through the dirt
They shall be proof of work
First to bring the mountain’s head shall have my daughter’s hand
The stilted air, it hangs over these days
Body, recognize your grave;
Don’t you have to make your own home?
And I just don’t know
That is my honest refrain
But I will lay my toe
Upon the line again
And when the distance goes
That’s when I’ll break my tent
Turn the flashlight off
Let the book fall flat
and blink the minute left.
i search for truth it’s why I’m a person an unsectioned individual settled in a time of my own chomping and hacking revelation from mad jigsaw puzzles half plastic half femur
and it holds us together home class streetwalkers those who choose the same and those who choose different and those who sit up all night wishing blue
and it holds me together both halves less like twine around a split pear and more like intermolecular forces polar and inexplicable splittable but even at infinite distance’s roar truth beckons
before uniquity before loyalty truth sat on the curb outside my house gingerly slipped a hot curtain of tears aside and offered up the nutritional content of milk with a little spit on the palm I shook small promise to find each other again whenever I get that license check in postcards games far hikes the small print strange looks unhappy holidays
And here’s what next week’s might be.
The job of the student is to figure out how to try harder.
Question: Are you able to do the activities you enjoy doing?
I am able to do some of the activities I enjoy doing, like always. I had coffee this morning.
This is not abnormal for most. My use of a French press was a little out of the ordinary, coupled with the fact that I, on pure accident, used the perfect amount of water for my UChicago Dining mug (I haven’t run any experiments, but I believe the grounds absorb a little water, making the process slightly more difficult than one would think), but that same thing must happen a thousand times across the planet for every minute between 7:00 and 9:00. I used perhaps a teaspoon of sugar, well below my usual taste for sweetness (I ascribe to the John Darnielle “I like my coffee light and sweet” preference half of the time; the other half, I take it black out to feel like my dad), and inhaled a boiled egg coated with salt and both red and black pepper as I sipped it. A light, normal-if-spicy breakfast.
Excepting an 18 mg pill of Concerta, prescribed for me on last week’s Thursday. My ritual, too, of swallowing it in the morning had begun to feel normal enough. The combination, however, was new to my circulatory system.
a non-mathematical proof
I’m unsure if stimulants are for me. I’m admittedly enjoying the ridiculous energy that comes from this, the smallest prescribed dosage generally offered. The midday yawns have fallen by the wayside, replaced by the powerful ability to demand that my brain finish reading a paragraph, then another paragraph, then finally an entire article; I applied for a class the day before the application was due, an unheard of change; I’ve written more songs (admittedly mediocre songs, but the process is absolutely worth tinkering with and the songs I made off Concerta were lacking, too), more poems, more open-minded things; my stack of incomplete books are actually getting some attention; productive focus is definitely in. Had I been on Concerta when I started college, my GPA wouldn’t be so crookedly slouched. It makes me pee quite a bit, though. And I’ve certainly never needed to suppress my already-underwhelming appetite.
Last Thursday — my first dosed day — was roughly equal in awkwardness to the first day I drove. Up until the point when your parent takes you to a parking lot and tells you not to put both feet on the gas and the brake simultaneously, your parent takes you everywhere. You can chirp from the backseat, “Mom, I wanna go to the mall, and the movies, and the arcade, and and and,” but at best, you’re gonna get to do one or two of those ands, because because. The second you actually wield the full power of your own personal combustion engine, you realize you can go anywhere.
It’s bafflingly liberating. You think, my dad is right there on the curb, but he probably couldn’t stop me if I started doing donuts. Wait, how do I do donuts? How do I do anything? After acquainting yourself with the knobs and levers and figuring out that this is all going to be very different when you actually have to start using them, nine times out of ten the prospective driver will hew very close to a series of rigidly inefficient but self-necessitated rules from this newfound vault of caution deep in the pit of your stomach, and as you hit upon oh after oh after oh after oh after oh (OH! That’s how I adjust my wipers’ speed!), your butt grows to fill out nicely those giant britches.
In the rare times when I deigned to put my hands on the wheel (trust me: rare), I drove a manual like it’s an automatic. To be certain, I was getting sick of this inefficiency. Medication… this still feels like a drastic measure, to me; if it were the only way to deal, we probably wouldn’t have had thousands of artists and presidents (Eisenhower?). On the other hand, I’ve tried conservative, and it’s been a slog. I’ve missed out on good friends (Chris Strange once pointed this out to me, and I didn’t have a clue as to how I could handle it), desperate youth, and blood thirsty babes.
I helped a friend move that night, navigating the usual social mumbo-jumbo with nerved anxiousness WHILE stalling my heavy-handedly-metaphorical engine. I’m going to level with you, resolute reader, as I stand on the brink of nothing but social interaction: the difficulty of doing this in the future leaves me honestly hesitant to do much but talk to people with text, since that’s always been one-hundred percent comfortable for me. But what the fuck, you go, you talk, you waggle your fists at the difficulties, and you do what you can’t. How else do you become a transient on the autobahn?
Anyway, these were my ohs.
An odd side-effect: I’ve noticed that my hearing is significantly more awful than I thought it was. Kind of good information to have, kind of bad information to be subject to.
An odd side-effect: my BP has generally resided on the high end. It is now residing on the higher end.
An odd side-effect: when I can’t understand what people are saying, I don’t have to tune them out to reason out what they mean; if life is a foreign film with captioning that cuts in and out, I previously would yank a mental phone out of my cerebellum and try to logic together a proper search term for the Bing of my gray matter so I can find and scan a Wikipedia page for whatever the fuck is going on very quickly; now, I AM POORLY-ORGANIZED WIKIPEDIA. With a mush-mouth.
An odd side-effect: I have more thoughts, and they all come quicker, so it’s not as easy to discern the worthwhile ones. One benefit of sitting in the backseat is you can put most of your attention into gazing soulfully out a window like Eleanor Rigby. Perception is everything, then. You have to mix perception with judgment in equal proportion.
My oh for today.
An odd side-effect: coffee blows up the tenuous cease-fire I’m forming with my concerted brain like siphoning jet fuel laced with cocaine into a Honda Civic.
I had a cup of French press coffee today. This is abnormal for me, for now; I will not be doing that again for some time. You don’t redline in a parking lot.
Chalkboard rule 36: The most important skill in an ever-changing world is evaluation. From Andrew Wulf’s programming blog thecodist.com:
This isn’t obvious to everyone, but the ability to see something new, or see what others are doing, or to compare multiple ways of doing something and then pick the best option for you, your team, your project or even your company is incredibly valuable. Most people I’ve seen are not very good at this. Most leaders are really terrible at this. It’s easy to just do what someone tells you you should do or something you read in a blog or just do what everyone else is doing. It’s much more difficult to look at things from all sides and your needs and pick something that seems to be best at that point. Of course you have to make some decision, people are often paralyzed by having to evaluate which often leads to picking something random or following the herd.