Self medicate!

I was all excited and stressed out this morning because I had an appointment with a mental health professional: someone to whom I could say anything, and from whom I could hopefully get some intelligent advice (and/or drugs). 

Well I took the packed Division bus downtown and found the Water's Building in the arctic face-burning wind only to find out that Dr. Fuller does not participate in the Blue Care Network, but in Blue Cross Blue Shield (I thought they were the same... the logos are identical.), and would I want to pay 185 dollars?  Eventually they said I could get a session with Dr. Vanderbeck at 4pm, and I agreed.  I sat down and picked up a National Geographic, but then I realized I should do some research on this Vanderbeck character, if that is his real name.  My worst fears were realized... Hope College... Christian Camp bladibla... specializes in sexual abuse.  Cancel'd!

So I went back into the cold.  I passed the arena which is surrounded by WWE coaches, and dozens of semis filled with equipment.  I saw the Hopcat Bar, and, determined to get therapy of any kind, went in.

It's A Real Big City

I don't know why I never published this:

I'm finally getting that "real" big city experience that I'd been so idealistically pining for all these years.  No, New York didn't count.  New York is too nice these days.  But the moment I step out of my apartment in Marseille, I get the real deal - the trash, the stink, the drooling drunks and the hollering insane people.  Walking down the street can be a chore.  "Non!  Je ne veux PA-PA-PA-PA-PAAAS!" screamed a woman in my face a propos of nothing.  I ducked away to be accosted by two gypsy girls who grabbed my arm and demanded coin.

A stroll through town is actually a dance around sleeping hobos, panhandlers, illegally parked cars, slowly waddling wide-assed old ladies, and dog shit.  Slick-haired 20 year-olds obstruct the sidewalk like Algerian James Deans.  Your presence cannot break their far away gazes.  Crossing the street is not for the inattentive.  Expect the unexpected from the diesel death-machines since they've just been stuck in a traffic jam for an hour, so when they find open road, they go for it with gusto.  After an hour outside, my nerves are jangled, my eyes burn, and my nose and lungs are insulted.

These people are nuts

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mozYoPICQJE 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Fs0hkdJzk8 

 Holy shit.

http://www.instructables.com/id/Orange-Candle/?ALLSTEPS http://www.naturalcuresnotmedicine.com/2013/11/heat-your-room-for-15-cents-day.html ???

Deli-cious tears

A homely midwestern couple approached, she a confused regard attached to a tear shaped body, him a taciturn lump. From behind the deli counter I exclaim my usual "Hello!"

"So here's the thing," she says, mercifully disposing with any pleasantries, "we went to Italy not long ago..."

"Oh that's wonderful!" I say.

"Yeah, well, when we were about to leave, everybody else was stuffing their bags full of Eye-talian food... sausages and cheese, you know... but I said to myself, why should I waste all that space in my baggage when I can get good Eye-talian food at Russo's?"

"Uh, ahem, well, yes..." I'm afraid I did a poor job of masking my shock/incredulity.

"So I'm lookin' to get some Eye-talian salami from Idilly that I can give to my daughter."

"That's going to be a problem." I'm not going to lie for what they pay me. Russo's carries no imported salami, only the American, nitrate-filled kind. Probably because of regulations. Also, no one in Grand Rapids is going to care.

Honestly the closest thing we have to European-style dried sausage comes from San Fransisco. It's pretty good, but for the sake of fuck, it has nothing to do with what you could get in Italy, you dumb cow!

It was painful. Russo's has a few good Italian cheeses albeit, and the imported prosciutto di Parma is nothing to sneeze at, but... how can you... what the... ugh!

"I guess we should've stuffed our bags with food too," she summarized, after my pained explanations.

"Well," I said, "what's done is done. Next time."

Heart

I feel sick

Shortly after getting up I told my Mom, "Ugh, I feel sick." She responded, "Oh, well I AM sick, I don't just 'feel sick.'" I think I quickly muttered something like, "Well usually being sick is the root cause of feeling sick," and slinked back upstairs. Ten minutes later I realized how fucked it is that she would respond to me saying "I feel sick," like that. Is it lack of empathy, one-upsmanship, or distrust of my word? Or a combination?