8:46 AM PDT - Nov. 05, 2004
i go to therapy now. saying it out loud lessens the shame i feel inside i guess that yes, something in me is broken that i can't Macgyver back together with some pink bubblegum and duct tape, and use sugar and toothpicks to make fire so i can fly. i didn't get drugs on my first visit. no paxil, no zoloft, not even tylenol with codeine. i told the truth. how i feel like a cat bonsai'd into a glass box at work. that the tunnel i'm in has no light even though the second hand keeps moving and the ticking keeps me up at night. how i want all my nights to be cold so i can sleep. she said you need a light. i need a carrot besides my son and wife, besides home, besides piano, besides a pen and blank piece of paper, a window with the rare rain of Los Angeles and the drops that race along the glass. i ask myself if this is mid-life and i answer no, your job just sucks is all and i check my pulse. maybe i should go to the doctor, just in case. maybe i've reached that age when the plastic gloves come on and all of a sudden i feel invaded like a hot dog on a popsicle stick before the corn batter bath. and then there's the city, the country, the universe and every hour is a supernova of blue and red and yellow. my son says daddy, it's rolie polie olie and i start crying. i need out of this stupid job. i want more for me. i want more for him. i want more for him. it's all for him.
