Summersonic
"You Hear Voices?"
I hate mornings.
That's when I have to take the Zoloft with my breakfast, get dizzy and crash on the couch for probably an hour or so, watching Oprah, Dr. Phil, or Tyra, if they have anything to do with something exciting. I was rubbing my temple feircly when the voice came back.
Get up and get a life.
It was like my own mother locked up in my brain, spitting out instructions to help me live a normal life. I was normal minus the depression drugs, alcohol-anonymous sessions, and regular therapy because I was still being a whiny pussy.
Haha. That voice has began to take over me. Here I was, calling myself the same obscene words he called me and then I dubbed myself Scizo whatever. I pushed the old beer can on the coffee table around, expecting the voice, which I feel actually secluded in hearing now, but I smiled when the voice was silent.
The television seemed amplified now.
"Depression: What Makes Them Tick. Next on Oprah."
Did the voice make the television louder so I would pay attention to it, and watch it?
Okay. Now I'm loosing it.
I told you you would need an asylum.
I growled, and turned over until I fell down onto the carpeted floor, and groaned when the vibrating floor caused the old beer can to topple over and spill onto the table and onto my shirt. It soaked and spread across it until the word 'Vengence' on my shirt became soaked in beer.
I reaked.
I decided on changing and not taking a shower. I never left the house, so nobody would care if I stank of last week's beer. I removed the shirt and tried to find another one. I blinked a few times in the dim closet before searching for a shirt.
You look hot topless.
My eyes widened suddenly, and I squeaked when I felt something cold touch my shoulder. I panted and slammed my body into the opposite wall, and noticed a metal hanger swinging there all alone. I put my hand over my heart and felt it boom in my chest.
"Gerard, you're loosing it."
I slipped on a red shirt with black scribbles, and walked back into the living room. The television was talking about depressed people who drink alcohol.
How fucking ironic.
"So, you say your daughter drinks alcohol and takes Zoloft?"
The lady on the screen was crying, her fifteen or so year old daughter next to her, wiping at her eyes with a hanky, "Sometimes, she goes drinking with her friends and begins to feel suicidal from so much depression. She knows she has to take Zoloft to keep the suicidal thoughts aside, and she doesn't take pills dry, and all that was near was a keg of Corona beer. She took them together and had to be taken to the hospital in the next eight minutes."
That's what you'll end up.
I swatted at the air, as if the voice would go away.
"Has she ever taken them on purpose?"
"Only when she feels suicidal, and knows she has water only a few minutes away from her. It kills me to know she does this."
Suddenly, the television shuts off, and I jumped back in my seat. I wipe the bead of sweat collecting on my forehead.
I don't want you do end up like that.
That's when I have to take the Zoloft with my breakfast, get dizzy and crash on the couch for probably an hour or so, watching Oprah, Dr. Phil, or Tyra, if they have anything to do with something exciting. I was rubbing my temple feircly when the voice came back.
Get up and get a life.
It was like my own mother locked up in my brain, spitting out instructions to help me live a normal life. I was normal minus the depression drugs, alcohol-anonymous sessions, and regular therapy because I was still being a whiny pussy.
Haha. That voice has began to take over me. Here I was, calling myself the same obscene words he called me and then I dubbed myself Scizo whatever. I pushed the old beer can on the coffee table around, expecting the voice, which I feel actually secluded in hearing now, but I smiled when the voice was silent.
The television seemed amplified now.
"Depression: What Makes Them Tick. Next on Oprah."
Did the voice make the television louder so I would pay attention to it, and watch it?
Okay. Now I'm loosing it.
I told you you would need an asylum.
I growled, and turned over until I fell down onto the carpeted floor, and groaned when the vibrating floor caused the old beer can to topple over and spill onto the table and onto my shirt. It soaked and spread across it until the word 'Vengence' on my shirt became soaked in beer.
I reaked.
I decided on changing and not taking a shower. I never left the house, so nobody would care if I stank of last week's beer. I removed the shirt and tried to find another one. I blinked a few times in the dim closet before searching for a shirt.
You look hot topless.
My eyes widened suddenly, and I squeaked when I felt something cold touch my shoulder. I panted and slammed my body into the opposite wall, and noticed a metal hanger swinging there all alone. I put my hand over my heart and felt it boom in my chest.
"Gerard, you're loosing it."
I slipped on a red shirt with black scribbles, and walked back into the living room. The television was talking about depressed people who drink alcohol.
How fucking ironic.
"So, you say your daughter drinks alcohol and takes Zoloft?"
The lady on the screen was crying, her fifteen or so year old daughter next to her, wiping at her eyes with a hanky, "Sometimes, she goes drinking with her friends and begins to feel suicidal from so much depression. She knows she has to take Zoloft to keep the suicidal thoughts aside, and she doesn't take pills dry, and all that was near was a keg of Corona beer. She took them together and had to be taken to the hospital in the next eight minutes."
That's what you'll end up.
I swatted at the air, as if the voice would go away.
"Has she ever taken them on purpose?"
"Only when she feels suicidal, and knows she has water only a few minutes away from her. It kills me to know she does this."
Suddenly, the television shuts off, and I jumped back in my seat. I wipe the bead of sweat collecting on my forehead.
I don't want you do end up like that.