The devil has a name, friends.

It's gabapentin.

Or more accurately, it's name is systemic-nation-wide-failure-to-provide-adequate-mental-health-care-for-the-poor, but we can just call the devil gabapentin for short.

Or just the devil. That is the shortest of the three names.

The point is that since January, I have been on some pills that I shouldn't have been on. That likely would have been caught earlier had I been able to see a doctor sometimes.

Nonetheless, here I am. Detoxing from that shit. Learning how to have emotions again. Shit's weird.

Has stuff happened? Yeah, probably.

Did I care about that stuff? Nope. Not at fucking all.

I have been sleeping with this woman since I moved to Tulsa. Her ex heard she had found someone new. He started stalking her. Then calling her. Then showing up at her house and refusing to leave. Then driving through her garage door. Twice. Then t-boning her car with his while she was driving. Then he started breaking into her house and destroying everything. Then he wrote "cunt" on her bedroom wall in his own blood. Then he stabbed himself in the neck.
And the police still accuse this woman of being over-dramatic and paranoid.

I love men. I love the police. I love the state of the world. I love how powerless I am to do anything.

We got a puppy.
His name is Jaspers Seneca Chomsky, after a few philosophers we like.
I say "we." It's my roommate's dog.

But because I have been withdrawing from meds and regaining all the anxiety that the meds were suppressing, I have more or less refused to leave the house and thus have gotten to snuggle with the puppy and my other roommate's super old dog.
It's been so fucking therapeutic.

My other roommate decided on Friday that he is moving out. More or less because of the dishes. I mean, nothing is ever really about the dishes, but that is how things manifest sometimes.

I hope he leaves his old dog here. We have a yard and comfortable couches and a puppy that he loves and there is usually someone here to cuddle with him. Where Mr. done-with-the-dishes works 12 hours or more every day and doesn't get to see the dog at all.

Plus, I really love the old dog. I've been friends with him for over a decade and he treats me like a second dad. It would be good for me to have a little extra responsibility and an old dog isn't that much work as to be overwhelming.

But it's his decision. It's a hard one, I'm sure.

I am just rambling now.

I guess that's all I've been doing.

But it's nice to talk to someone.

Even if that someone is a blank screen

and a handful of people I've never met.

Thank you.

1:00 p.m. - 2019-09-02