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It ain’t over til it’s over. And it ain’t over.

December 7, 2013

Today my therapist told me that she wished she had “hospital rights” because she’d put me in the hospital Right Now. I don’t know what hospital rights are. She must have seen the horrified look in my eyes, because she said that she’d make sure I got an IV with antibiotics and fluids and a full exam to see what’s going on with my lungs and back; she thinks something is seriously wrong because I’ve been sick with one, the other, or both for almost two entire months now. I think that her idea of me staying and getting some rest and treatment for “three days” sounds suspiciously like “72-hour psychiatric hold.” She’s fooling no one.

So now I can’t trust her either. Not like I’ve told her the whole truth anyway. I snapped at her today; once I rolled my eyes at a suggestion she made, and once I got a little pissy over her answering the phone for the pizza delivery guy. Really. So I guess I get the fun side effects of Zyban. That’s hyperbolic. It just happens that I want to fuck EVERYTHING in sight. That I forget to eat. That I am … fucking crazy. &c. &c. &c. The fact remains, though, that I cannot trust her. Everything will fall apart if I have to go to a hospital for anything.

TLTL disappeared again after I asked him if us fucking would be no strings attached or result in us dating. When I said that we should probably talk about it one way or another so that we can move forward either way, he didn’t respond. MTIA showed fleeting interest in our friendship by replying to a Facebook post. Fucking Facebook.

I can’t think straight.


From → fiction, rants

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