I’m on an anti-anxiety pill for the moment. I will probably be on it sporadically over the next few weeks, waiting on some finality (meaning some answers not death).
It’s actually a pretty pleasant experience. Its making me grin a lot, though I am also a touch dopey. It’s also making me write very heartfelt thank you notes to people I love. I took one before being strapped down and inserted into the photographic electro birth canal of the MRI. When I got out of my scan, the doctor told me I could keep the grippy sock things if I was so inclined. I saw Sis in the waiting room; she asked how it went. “I get to keep these booties!” was the only thing I said, grinning like Grandpa had just given me a $100 bill. Then I stumbled and bumbled a bit. Then we saw dinosaurs.
I’m pretty sure we saw dinosaurs.
The point is, these anti-anxiety pills seem to turn me into (even more of) a child. I’m very happy, sitting here in my office, all secondary light sources, trying hard to stop grinning at my Lady of Justice statute and really trying to get work done. Here I am, innocent as a newborn.
Which is why it’s extraordinarily weird that every 10 minutes or so, my brain keeps thinking about sex. And not just like “two people laying under some covers” sex. Like some really nasty, intense, hide your children’s eyes, get some tarps for the front row of the Gallagher Show, filthy, depraved, ungodly sex.
Passersby keep hearing giggles coming from my office. No telling what its about.