My sister drove me to another psychiatrist since my wayward psychiatrist left for US without even leaving me a referral letter to another psychiatrist and so we went to see another fecking psychiatrist while the first friend's referral brought us to a bloody neurologist. A neurologist, fucking christ. My first psychiatrist is a jolly risible man who treats me like an autistic child: very cautious, very understanding, and always smiling and nodding his head in assent. My second psychiatrist is a gloomy man with a face of a bulldog whose years of scowling permanently damaged his cheek muscles to sag lower than his jaw. He is tall and round whose chin doubled in two layers of pokable fat--oh did I itch to pinch him with my killer nails. His eyes were sad and depressing that when you look at him he seems to be one mentally retarded than you are. He interviewed me in a tiny cubicle freshly painted with light blue as my sister and I sat each on a plastic chair opposite his. Without even glancing he scribbled unintelligible notes on a sheet of bond paper while he interrogated me one question after another. The session was fast paced. He filled in the paper back and forth. The scent of fresh paint infiltrated through our nose. My sister interrupted from time to time. And in ten minutes we're done. His conclusion: I'm a depressed alcoholic and my alcoholism caused my schizophrenia and that I should be rehabilitated.

I am naturally depressed (and contrariwise, hyperactive), mind you. Good lord, I was just prolly depressed when he interviewed me. His disconsolate aura bewitched me into becoming a scowler like him.

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh. It's so noisy here sa house!!!X00 Somebody switch the goddamn television off!X0

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