March 14th, 2003

Seriously. No, seriously.

Since making the big switch from crappy old Paxil to amazing, fantastic, works-beautifully-in-the-background Lexapro, yesterday was the first time I've skipped a dose. Yesterday was very stressful at work--the first really emotionally stressful day I think I've had since I came to work here 2.5 years ago--but I thought I was holding together pretty well. I worked through my lunch creating fabulous, clean brochures out of a crappy ad designed by my boss/owner of the company/father. Who, for all one of you out there who've seen the corporate web site (which I've decided not to link to lest he sees realtome.com in his referral logs, clicks through and reads me talking smack about him, but any of you who've received an email from me could probably figure it out) know, is no designer. At first, he was like, "Go to my machine, log on as me and email this ad to yourself." But I find being "talked through" the process of finding a document that I really don't want in the first place annoying and condescending. Seriously, can't it wait 20 minutes until you're in the office? No? Then trust me enough to come up with something myself. Seriously.


Then when I said, "Why can't you just tell me the name of the document so I don't have to be on the phone with you while I wait for the computer to boot up?" But that aggrivated him, so then he told me about another document that needed to be created from scratch within the realm of the same Dire Project for Asshat Salesman by 2:00. I was given leave to do that, and Mr. Bossdad would just email the aforementioned assy ad for me to fix up into a brochure once he got into the office. For the record, it's amazing what a little white space and changing force justified columns to rag right can do. And why am I the only person who seems to think that three columns in a row should bottom out on the same line? Seriously, the man can't have a rag right column, but the bottom can sit there all snaggly?


Although that part of my day was mildly annoying, it didn't bring me to my knees. It wasn't until booking to the post office before 5 that I realized I was suffering from the official medical condition known as Lack of Anti-Anxiety Medication. I was a tad pissed (can one be a tad pissed?) because I had just learned that two gifts that were allegedly contained in a Christmas package from the creative and generous Dynagirl probably went unnoticed before I recycled all the packaging and box and stuff. Basically, she sent me a necklace and TFE a handmade bracelet, we didn't notice them in our childlike tearing open of the package, and we must have tossed them with the rubbish. So, my state of mind while rushing to get a toe into the door before USPS locked me out was already mad at myself. I flipped off two drivers and honked at another, not to mention the handful of people I called "moron," "prick" and "asshat" without their knowledge in less than 2 miles from work to the post.


Luckily, I made it to the post office in time to mail my package or else I probably would have redefined "going postal." Then I proceeded immediately to Super Target and picked up my prescription. I cannot say how seriously dire it is for some of us to be medicated. Sure, there are natural methods of relieving stress and alieving depression. And, yes, many people would rather not have to take a pill every day. But that doesn't change the fact that some people in the world--me included--need more of chemical X or endorphin Y to function normally in the non-asshole sector of the world. As Anya so aptly put it, "I hate this. This tone in my voice? I dislike it more than you do, and I'm closer to it!"


To sum up: Anti-anxiety meds = good. Crazy, anxious, traffic-addled lady behind the wheel of a silver Acura with a V-Tech engine = not good.


A couple of Muntant Enemyverse-adjacent thoughts:

1. Anna S., my secret (to her, not to anyone else in the world) Internet girlfriend, has, like me, started a Live Journal. Only now she writes exclusively (and seemingly more than ever!) in her LJ. I still post by appointment to my blog, but link to it from an LJ. I actually wanted an LJ just to be able to read Jenn's, which is friends-only. But I find that I read more people's posts from my friends page more regularly. There are those who I want to know what's going on in their lives, but would always forget to go read them. LJ helpfully supplies my crack all on one little screen. It does my crack-fix bidding. Sheesh. Why am I so random today? The point is that I can now call Anna S. my friend. But only in the Live Journal way. Is it possible that she would ever even notice me? Doubtful. She's not like Fox, who you can just bling up one day and say, "Hey! Remember how on MBTV you said you'd send me audio files of The Gift?" and she's all, "Yeah!" And then we're all chatty about how useless Spike was in season five and other random stuff and eventually you end up chipping in to buy her a vibrator. Anna's just the girl who's fic and blog and comments on the Better Buffy Fics list and essays about queerness in the Buffyverse you read, and then discuss thoroughly with your friend Dyna later in chat. And you think about emailing her to say, "Hey, I dig your stuff! Stay cool." but you don't because you know she never replies to emails, so why bother? Kind of like Sars. She's brilliant, she's funny, and you don't want to imagine a day on the Internet without her. But you'll never tell her. Instead, you order night-vision goggles from Sharper Image and hope she doesn't know how to obtain a restraining order.


2. Joss is wrong. There is a God. I know there is. How do I know, you ask? Well, a variety of reasons, but the most recent being the immediate answer to my prayer, "Please, oh, please let us see her in shower!"