Sometimes, I think I should get back on antidepressants, but I have a couple of personal issues with doctors. For one thing, I have a hard time imagining a street-level drug dealer requiring me to pay to see a counselor once a week to explain why I need their product. It just seems like a strange business model for a drug dealer. More importantly, anytime I pay someone to pretend to care about me, I just sort of assume we’re dating; especially when doctors say all sorts of sexy things like, “When’s the last time you fantasized about self-harm?”
You see, for a suicidal depressive, those words are the next best thing to phone sex. It’s like, “Give me the pills. Ask me about the cutting. Now, slap me in the face and call me a lonely girl-boy. YES!”
By the way, every time I ejaculate, my tears and semen coalesce to form a giant rainbow with a great herd of unicorns prancing over its delicate arc in pastoral glee, crapping cupcakes, and pissing glitter.
(listen at https://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/miller)