Except I didn't go back for the second skin test. Thanks to a depression induced misadventure the night before I had a flat tire on one vehicle, no gasoline in the other, and everything in the bank belonged to Verizon and Nationwide. So I called nurse Bitchface and told her I couldn't make it in. Not that it mattered, she and the cross-eyed wonder of a doctor had already tap danced all over the basket I'd placed all of my hopeful eggs in. I told her I felt they had discriminated against me because of my age. She was taken aback, how dare I call her out on her prejudice? Blah blah blah.
So the auto shop up the street located a new tire for me, all I had to do was bring them the old one. Did I mention the flat tire was on a car six miles outside the city, and that I'd walked back home the night before? Good times. So I drove out to the car, took the flat tire off at the side of the interstate -now there's an adrenaline rush for you- and left it at the shop. Went home, called human resources and left a message re: being disqualified for the program pending a release from the orthopedic place and waited for the new tire to be ready. Took the new tire back out to the roadside car and put it on and drove it home while a friend drove the second vehicle for me.
TGIF, because I'm sick of my own company. At least there will be another human voice around for the next two days. All news all day was fine once upon a time. Back before religious nutters began flying planes into buildings and maniacs shot up night clubs or mowed down tourists on sidewalks with trucks. Oh, and raping and beheading infidels, can't forget those important religious duties.
I watched a documentary on You Tube last night, The Madness of Prince Charming, about Adam Ant. I didn't know he'd battled mental illness his entire life. He's still so beautiful, soft spoken and gentle. He recalled an episode early in his life, he'd taken some pills. He said in retrospect it had probably been a cry for help, that he didn't take enough to actually kill himself, but he ended up strapped down in a hospital scared and alone. This was before fame, before being a rock star provided him a disguise to mask his illness. He has bipolar disorder. The depressive phase was very nearly the end of him more than once. But the manic state, as you might guess, went completely undetected by everyone around him. It showed itself in creative genius, an obsessive attention to detail and order. And while he didn't drink, do drugs, or even smoke, he was very much an addict. He enjoyed the company of women, bless him.
James Taylor also suffered depression and addiction, though he came from a moneyed background and probably got help much sooner. And while one beautiful boy survived the horrors of the equivalent of a state-run hospital, the other most likely whiled the days away comfortably, taking in the pastoral setting of a manor-like home for the wayward and confused children of the rich.
Human Resources never called back. I wonder if an Anarchists Cookbook is still online? Molotov cocktails can't be that hard to figure out, right?
10:09 p.m. - 2016-07-29
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