I don't seek medical attention in the way most people do. I tend to only two things-- my mental health, and my future. Yes, I have a psych and a psychic. Hi, my name is Ginnifer, and I am crazy and lazy. You may be asking yourself, "is Gin really going to blog about something so personal?" Yes, yes she is. After all, is anything really that sacred anymore? People blab their tragic life stories to anyone who will listen. And worse yet, people will blab their boring life stories to anyone who will listen. Most people nowadays are whack-a-doos, and they don't even know it. I am a highly functioning lune. I am aware of my idiosyncrasies, and am doing something about it! Well...sort of.
So let's discuss my shrink, aka "The Hot Indian." Maybe I should back up to why I decided I needed to see a psychiatrist....Actually, stop being nosy, you don't need to know every detail of my glamorous life. I will say, that winters are hard on me, I play mother to 20 diva misfits who suck the life out of me, and I am incredibly intelligent. I include the latter because I am a firm believer in, "happy people are too stupid to know better." Or, as in my case, see their own version of a Hot Indian Doctor.
As a fully functioning crazy, the first visit to the shrink is nerve racking. You sit in a waiting room judging the other crazies around you, with the presumptuous assumption that they are all sociopaths or schizophrenics. They could not possibly be pretty young things who get sad when it snows. When you finally get called back to the Hot Indian you are asked a series of introductory questions. Basically two questions asked a hundred different ways..."do you want to kill yourself," and "are you anorexic?" In my head I thought of all the times I passive aggressively wrote "kill myself" on my to do list to make my co-workers feel like I work harder than them. And I wish I had the dedication and will power to be anorexic. So after that, The Hot Indian asks vague questions of how I feel. This is the part where I rehearse all possible answers in my head to come across as the right amount of crazy. I don't want to be too crazy because this doctor is good looking with a very lush head of hair. But I want to be a little crazy as to not waste his time. Yes, his time is much more important than my mental stability. He is good looking, and everyone knows good looking people are better than ugly people--no matta' what. So after a good 10 minutes of me flip flopping from, "yeah, I'm cool," to, "yeah sometimes I sort of feel like everything is stupid and boring," I stop talking and smile with teeth. A tip I learned in a Clinique seminar to make people feel happy. All incredibly intelligent people describe things as "stupid and boring," and smile awkwardly. I think I may have also said, "there are many people in my life I want to kick until they die." "Why?" Hot Indian asks. "Um, because they are stupid and boring," I reply, adding a commical wink.
Then we move onto anxiety. Of course I have anxiety. Everyone does because the world tells us to do as many things as possible while over indulging in Red Bull and Starboos. And people always want or need something from me, forcing me to play deaf and or blind when faced with a person or situation I am not interested in. Did I mention I hate winter? Obviously I don't like being cold, or driving through a snowy tundra almost dying everyday on my way to work, but let's also be honest...I don't care for how I look in layers. Yes, I prefer to be wearing the least amount of clothes in the most modest way possible. I specifically get depressed when I see scarves. I sure as shit don't wear them myself, how terribly uncomfortable, but I also get sad and rageful looking at others in scarves. Especially when it's the type of scarf worn all day as part of an outfit. And especially if it is large and bulky. The tiny little silk scarves Carol Brady wore in the 70's are fine, but those melancholy scarves hipsters wear year round, really grind my ass. Yes, a scarf can be melancholy.
Did I just disclose too much info on my crazy? I'm a unique kind of crazy, aren't I? So after Hot Indian stared at me in confusion while typing into his laptop, (hopefully he quoted me right) he did what all drug pushers do these days, wrote me a scrip that he warned could potentially make me fat, and give me little interest in making sweet love. Awesome. Two side effects that would make any crazy person feel so much better about life. Ahh, whatever, I'll try anything twice, so I drove directly to my local CVS and began my new chapter in life called, "If you don't like the current version of yourself, take meds until you feel like someone else."
So it's been 6 months today, that I have taken the drugs sporadically when I feel like it, a few times. I feel so super terrific and everything is euphoric and perfect! I'm joking. He didn't prescribe me crack cocaine. Things are fine enough. Or at least they will be after October 7, 2012, according to my psychic, Janet! Oh wait, that date has already passed, and I am not sure how my life became tremendously better? Oh well, if it's not in the cards, I'm not gonna do it.
Let me tell you about my psychic. Her office is in a building with other doctors, down an average hall much similar to Hot Indian's office. It's what's behind the door that makes it quite different. The waiting room is dimly lit with shelves and shelves of astrology books, an old couch and numerous hand written signs that say, "No gum, no cell phones, and keep your feet off the couch." The couch looks like it belongs on the porch in a trailer park. I don't think it would matter if you put your feet on it. But then again, was she having a problem with grown ups putting their feet on the couch? That seems like an awkward way to sit. Especially if you're a lady.
Janet greets you behind a window just like a doctors office were she too feverishly types your info into a laptop. After she pulls up your chart she calls you back to her office, like she isn't herself, as well as the receptionist. In her office is another old couch for me, and a big old recliner for her. Once again several hand written signs like in the waiting room. Janet's last name, "Amid" implies she is of some middle Eastern decent, but really she looks like a big cabbage patch doll from the eighties. Pleasantly plump with wild black hair, usually in some sort of patio dress.
Janet really likes me because she says I have a great and unique chart. I don't fully understand what this means, but I interpret it to mean, I am an after school special, and I can be whatever I want in life. But then again, I am not sure why I would want to be a buyer in Novi then... Who knows, who cares... I just love Janet because she makes me feel like a million bucks, and always leaves me with a special date that's coming soon that will change my life. Earlier in the year it was June 2012. Then October 7, 2012. Both days past and I didn't become Queen of the world, but this will not stop me from seeing Janet, and abiding by the rule of not putting my shoes on the couch.
The moral of the story is this, I am a hoot and half, with a personality adored by millions. That's all.
No comments:
Post a Comment