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Diaryland is da bomb I just *have* to tell you how much this all sucks. Who're these other people he's writing about? Who's the freak writing this, anyway? What's gone before. What's going on right now? Where do *you* visit on the web? What're you building right now?


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Another smart-assed remark from Mike
This is my brain on Celexa
21:00:00 on 2000-02-09

Celexa r Day 6 (on Celexa), 34 (on antidepressants) Celexa r

Feeling:

Bored. I'm at work and there's not enough to keep me busy, so I'm writing down these dream sequences. Exciting! Woo! NOT.

I discovered something strange. Usually when I'm getting dressed I put on my clothes, and when I am fastening my belt I pull it until it's tight and then let it slide back so that the hook can catch.

Today, it didn't slide. I seem to be losing weight since I got on antidepressants, whereas most people gain weight. This rocks!

A couple dream sequences:


I am sitting in my bedroom staring at this figure in my room. He's clad in shiny black neoprene or vinyl and has the word "POLICE" written across his forehead in bright yellow. But this guy isn't quite human.

He's got knotty arms and legs and a foreboding, unblinking stare that can't be the result of anything alive. It's a machine meant to control my activities. (He actually resembled the "Foot soldiers" from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, if you ever have seen the cartoons.)

No matter where I go, or what I do, they interfere. I can't try to do anything at the computer, or watch television, or leave, or fix dinner, or make a phone call. I'm a prisoner in my own home, no hope, no chance.


I am standing in a long line of people on a conveyor belt. The walls are featureless and black, like obsidian, and only every twenty feet or so there are lights that shine onto the belt, the inbetween areas being in shades of grey.

While the belt moves, everyone is turned facing forwards, but looking around as voices shout down at us asking questions. The belt begins to turn a corner, and it begins to ask me questions, and I feel like someone is prodding and inspecting me like a lab rat.

"Are you still looking for another job?"

"Yes," I answer, looking up trying to ascertain where the voice is coming from.

"Are you still walking every day?"

"No. Why do you want to know?" This is ticking me off. I already felt pretty stressed out.

"Why did you stop doing the things you did?"

"Like what?"

"You don't do the things that you did before?"

"I don't know, I told you. I am trying!"

The rest of the people keep going around the curve. A hole opens in the wall near me and I start travelling through it, through the "reject slot."

restlessmind


Ancient history:
2013-03-01"You'll be stone dead in a moment!"
2007-08-07I covet fuck you money
2007-07-16My own long, dark tea-time of the soul
2007-07-11My internet experience is lacking
2007-07-10Coincidence



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