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I'm
Still here.

It seems I sleep later and later, wake about the same.

Gotta face it, ol' Lambert: you ain't well. Shit's tanking again, lil' chum.

Well now. What do we do about it? This is your head: where do we go from here? Do we call in the doctor, do we wait for the next appointment?

It started with the ravenous hunger, the kind that food doesn't dissipate. It grew to general discontent, added with that insatiable need to feed. It's turning in to little fits of problematic behavior: blurting stupid shit in public, fleeing my apartment as soon as I woke up -- so as not to face the monotony of the computer all day. It takes me days upon days to get at my dishes.

What happened?!

I was doing fucking amazingly for like 7-10 days.

Eegah. Did the anti-depressant quit on me?

Ah. Fucking hell. You know what, life lived as a mentally ill being takes its toll on my hopes. Just when I was thinking, "Hell -- I'll get a job; I have people to talk to; people want me around; I'm fucking happy!", BOOM. I fall on my ass again.

Patient and noble readers may recall a similar downturn early in Anti-Depressant #2's time with me.

Maybe this mood-flipping will go on for months. Up, down, up my ass, and back out my nose.

It's just.. it's immensely trying on my patience. My quality of life is always noodling around due to some imbalance or another. Usually, I respond to this stuff with either, "Aw shit, here we go again," or, "Well. I'm better than I was 2-3 years ago..."

It's just, it's just, it's just: goddamn, can't I get a fucking break? Can't my head work for longer than a few parceled days at a time?

I am trapped in a prison; this prison renders me slack-minded, babbling, and childlike. What kind of hell is this...

Yes. But, I can't whine forever.

Eegah; it's gunna be okay, right? I'm not cracking again. I hope. It's amazing how 1-2 days can really fuck with my whole outlook.

I just want to function. Work a little. Live a little. This maddening continuous Sunday Living has gotten me all stifled and haunted.

Lemme out of the box, man.

Lemme go for a little detour around the block. See some shit. Take me back when I'm old, feeble, and have nothing else to entertain my sad little mind. I think I could handle being 90, incontinent, mad as fucking brick wall coated in baked beans. At least when I can't read, can't use my hands, I may actually welcome delusions of oddity.

It would be a change from the Home.

Jesus.

What a weird mood I'm in.

You Missed:

*DISCLAIMER
* WHO TF IS ALL THIS??!
* INTRO, 2
* NAQ

Backlog:

Circa 2010