Friday, March 10, 2017

March 10, 2017

Dear Diary,

Today was a very interesting experience for me because ever since the you-know-what, I've felt very sad and alone. Dr. Morell's treatment does seem to be helping, but there are two sides to that coin.  On the one hand, I no longer feel the urges to grab an AK-47 and mow down everyone on Capitol Hill as depressed as I once did.  On the other, I find that the combinations of Mirtazapine, Prozac and Lithium have numbed me to the point where I am no longer the raging cunt sensitive person that I used to be.

To be fair, Dr. Morell did warn me that I might experience a loss of feeling, but he never once mentioned that would extend to my wearing adult diapers 24/7.  I used to be able to drink three cups of coffee and hold it through three Senate sub-committee hearings, including that Benghazi thing where everyone blamed me for everything that wasn't my fault.  Now I just sit here in bed all day, springing more leaks than Julian Assange on a good day.  Bessie practically wiped out Costco's supply of Depends last week.

Sweet Jesus, I'm burning through that stuff like a crack whore on meth.

I have to admit that I want to rape and torture don't like that Julian Assange fellow.  For one thing, he has absolutely no idea what to do with his hair.  First he wears it long.  Then he cuts it short.  Then he colors it white.  Then he grows a beard.  He dresses as if he's a "summer" when he's really a "winter."  That's just inexcusable.

Even though he fucked me over lives thousands of miles away, I'd recommend my colorist, but apparently there's no way to get to him.  Believe me, the CIA and NSA my campaign staff tried.  He's holed-up in a one-room apartment in the Ecuadoran embassy in London, which must be awful.  I know all about that:  It's one thing to spend 24 hours a day in a dark room; it's quite another to be force-fed what they loosely call "food" in England.  El-barfo.  It really sucks.  That's why those red-nosed limeys those people drink so much.  You can't consume fried fish sticks every day without it eventually taking its toll.  Then again, it's probably better than fried lizards or alligator sandwiches or whatever those Ecuador people eat.  Yuck.

Life is so odd, diary.  In a strange way, I feel a kind of kinship with Assange.  We're both prisoners of our circumstances. We're both so terribly misunderstood. And yet we find ourselves on two different sides of the mirror.  Maybe I could learn something from him.  Maybe I should grow my hair longer.

I wonder how I'd look in a black turtleneck.

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