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Manufactured me
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I feel better since writing the last entry, moments ago, whatever. Just feels better to come to terms with things, call a feathered, floating, quacking thing a duck, ya know? Some say the labels are causing humanity to suffer these days. I can be in a state of agreement, yes I can. But I predominantly reside in left field , where it's nearly impossible to catch a fly ball to the right ... or the center, for that matter. I *see* with my third eye the guru hubbub. I can't live it always, though, and I'm getting tired of beating myself up for it. There is much too much influence today to impart craziness. (I saw a show last night where doctors once stimulated the hysterical woman's clitoris as treatment!) Functioning under one influence, Pfizer or Merck will do, may be the wave of adaptation: controlled craziness.

I've seen it for real. I know a half a xanax curbs neuroticism. A half today becomes three next month, etc. I worry about the magic fading. Then what? Then how do I know what's me and what's the drug? And I've seen harmful misdiagnoses. Loved ones guinea-pigging themselves on the Prozac get that seen-a-ghost look until the concoction's half-life dies. Then what? Then I'd have to find my way back to this freaked out point, deciphering me from artificial me.

Anyone on the meds, please drop me an email.

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