Wednesday, June 26, 2019
by Jim Rousch
Don't call me oppressed. I'm fucking bored, because I'm in a motel room with nothing to do.
The least someone could do is mail me a book of matches and a gallon of gasoline, but the problem with that plan is that everyone will know who did that, so there's point in doing something that stupid. Hence, I just have to ride this one out.
I didn't do well in the class I was in-except for the last week. I knew it was that mood stabilizer the very moment I finished three weeks in one. I also knew that was the problem when I returned to normal. All I knew was that I couldn't do my research-and it annoyed the hell out of me, because I didn't feel like myself.
The wrong medication in a damaged brain like mine spells fabulous disaster, but on the other hand, my psychiatrist told me that over 99 % of babies who acquire meningitis don't make it to grad school-and I wonder if that is because they aren't pushed, like I was.
At least I know I'm bored.