We Ripped Through That Puppy!

The unit test covering the first 4 chapters of Abnormal Psychology is behind me. Unlike my Psych 101 professor, I didn't disclaim myself at the onset of the course by notifying the professor that I have some degree of cognitive dysfunction and short-term memory loss from my years of alcoholism and drug addiction. My former professor essentially said "Pfft. Don't underestimate yourself. Your brain has an amazing capacity to build new connections and function just fine," so I didn't want to make it an issue with my current professor, even though things like quizzes aren't my strong suit, of which we have 20 this semester....like every day. ANYWAY.

I had voraciously studied, having read the book and memorized the Power Point slides as well as I could, in order to answer 20 true/false questions, 70 multiple choice questions and 2 short answer questions. My manic mind felt that the 40 minutes it took for me to complete the exam was more like 10 minutes.

I'm a notoriously fast but thorough test-taker, regardless of bipolar stability or seemingly impaired cognition. My system is to go through the entire test, rapid-firing answers to what I deem obviously correct, leaving the unknown/unsure questions to dissect later. And the professor did try to screw us with some very ambiguous possibilities on the multiple choice. I must say, I enjoyed the question about the current societal deviancy of body piercings so much that I underlined "body piercings" and drew a smiley face underneath it. I was the first one in the class to complete and hand in the exam, not because I was 100% sure I answered all of the questions correctly, but rather, I'm a quick reader and capable of picking out keywords. Overall, not too shabby, given all those dead brain cells (which, via neural plasticity, can regenerate!).

I was, however, tripped up by a question as to the precise definition of, essentially, what you label a factor with regard to coming down with chicken pox. The question had to do with having the virus that causes chicken pox and what the probability is that the patient will actually be symptomatic of the disease, because the virus can be latent in the system without the patient "having chicken pox." (Kind of an old-fashioned question, given there's a vaccine nowadays, but that's moot.) It was followed by a question as to what you label the correlation between and risk of incidence with regard to smoking and lung cancer, given not *all* patients with lung cancer are/were smokers. The differences in the labeling are so coy (to me, anyway), that out of the 3 possible models, I have ill ease that I answered either question correctly. Meh.

The short answer questions were a breeze. The first was on the diathesis-stress model in psychopathology. She said to "write a few words or a sentence" to the question. To The Offbeat Drummer, "a sentence" is equal to "a paragraph." As you're all aware, I'm nothing if not verbose, and when I don't know a dictionary or precise classification of a word or term, I'm really, really good at winging it, either with overtly intelligent twists of wording or practical examples. (Read: The next best thing to knowledge is bullshit, an educational philosophy that has historically served me very well.)

Put simply, a diathesis is the chance anyone of us has to develop a certain psychological disorder at some point in life, based on a number of biopsychosocial factors. (Biopsychosocial = genes + psychological makeup + social environment/adaption.) Stress, defined, is an individual's ability to cope with emotional or physical factors that exceed his/her capacity to adapt or relate. (My definitions, not the book's or the professor's.)

Thus, the diathesis-stress model can vary from person to person. Some folks have a stronger genetic, psychological or social makeup that predisposes them to handle stressors poorly (like me, the comorbid mentally ill addict/alcoholic). Others are built like brick shithouses and nullifying the odds of all of those factors, handle stressors and their ramifications very healthily (like my brother, or my son, 2 of my closest blood relatives, which is called resilience induced by "protective factors").  BINGO! (That's how I answered the question, though I didn't actually write "BINGO" after it.)

I'd been wondering for a long time why, exactly, I turned out book-smart and creatively talented, but two buckles shy of a straight jacket, with a highly addictive personality and clinically significant mental disorders, while my brother, who is biologically very similar to me, is, for all intents and purposes, though not highly academically intelligent, musically gifted, and "normal." If anything, psychosocially, my brother is a thrill-seeker, though it's not of clinical significance that he chooses to ride a motorcycle. Slowly, these queries are being answered in my study of abnormal psychology.

The second short answer question was "What is the problem with 'labeling' a patient?" While I missed one key factor, the fact that it closes off further inquiry into a specific diagnosis, I think I saved face with my (personal) example. I did get correct the notion of stigmatization and stereotyping the patient/client. My example/explanation? Setting: Inpatient mental institution (been there, survived that). Doctor/clinician: "The bipolar in bed 5...." which defines the individual by her disorder, just as a diagnosis, as if that's all she is, bipolar and inhumanly inconsequential. I said it'd be better phrased as "Andrea, the patient in bed 5, who has Bipolar II disorder with mixed-mood episodes, is exhibiting symptoms of hypomania today." Given we haven't even begun to cover specific disorders, my professor is going to wonder where in the hell I came up with that clinically detailed example. In any event, though I may have phrased my answer *not* according to the "clinical model," my answer is nonetheless correct. BINGO AGAIN!


As I said on the first day of class, I decided to "impart my tidbits of insanity" as they came on-topic, instead of unleashing it all at once. I don't wish to overwhelm anyone, least of all, me. But damn, having all these neuroses is REALLY handy!


In summary, I either did exceptionally well on the exam, or I fucked the whole thing up. I've never fallen into the fair-to-midland range, generally landing (remember the standard deviation graph?) on one end of the extreme or the other. I was certain in Psych 101 that I was failing miserably, when in actuality, I scored 99% for a final grade just a hair away from an A+. (That said, when I took genetics as an undergrad, I thought I understood the material marvelously, and ended up with a D, though I *can* tell you why my son had blue eyes as a baby that turned to deep green.) In complaining, over dinner, to my mother last night, that I was indeed having trouble with equations such as the aforementioned factors of disease prevalence (if you have X, you might develop Y, though if you are born with A,B & C, your chances of developing X are only vaguely relative to Y, etc.), she begged the question, "Are you SURE you want to go into psychology as a profession?" My answer was still a resounding "Yes." 


If my divine calling, let's say, is ultimately to counsel and help people whose conditions and mental states are similar to or even worse than my "multi-morbidity," then yes, I will engage in the several years of coursework and practice required to become a doctor, no matter how difficult or daunting the training might be. Naysayers believe I should abandon the pursuit of science in favor of embracing writing, but there's no law written that says I can't do both. 


Right?

The Man in the Mack Said "You've Got to Go Back." You Know, They Didn't Even Give Us a Chance.

Sunday:

So today was coffee and conversation with Guy Friend at a local bar/restaurant. Neither of us was apparently paying attention to notice there was a Starbucks RIGHT NEXT DOOR, and the bar was where I landed, arriving first, waiting for him, *not* augmenting my iced tea with any "Long Island." I very well could have, and Guy Friend would never have known. (I would've known and hated myself for it, and I would've told my sponsor, who would've shot me.)  I didn't, of course, but the threat of ALL of those BOTTLES behind me sometimes gets a little overwhelming and unnerving, speaking just in regard to my own illness, as does the underlying din of clinking beer bottles, glasses, corks opening, ice landing in said glasses, in what was otherwise a relatively quiet setting, etc. (As I've mentioned before, one of my idiot savant traits is memorizing background noise while simultaneously paying attention to conversation.)

Our last barroom confab (over a year ago) was at another bar/restaurant, at my request but per his choosing, though we had Diet Pepsi, and that was sitting AT the bar, which was even unhealthier. Bars, unless you're there to see live music, are, to a recovering alcoholic, both a dream and a nightmare. A definite strength-of-character challenge. A fantasy world and a reality check at the same time. Sort of like my addict mind imagining walking into a whole, vaulted room containing barrels of pure hydrocodone powder and not being able to snort it (like SuperJuls' job as a chemist. Hello, jealous! No, SuperJuls doesn't snort hydrocodone. Merely an analogy.).

I sat there and had a lovely visit with someone who's time for me is (sometimes frustratingly) limited in a room filled with all this other shit I can't have right behind me! (Stomps foot.) Guy Friend thinks, in hindsight, that I did just fine, and I ended up apologizing for not having the where-with-all to change the venue to Starbucks and took the blame for both of us, resigning and allowing him to make the plans for a change. Perhaps he took pity on me after my 17th text in a row that intimated, "GET ME THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

I *did* do just fine, but repeatedly asking to meet in a bar, as I explained to Guy Friend, isn't the healthiest atmosphere for me, which he, as my friend, should be more considerate of in the future. Besides, it's not like he's maliciously trying to put me in risky or uncomfortable situations. That said, he suggested that next time we just go to Panera for some innocuous soup and salads. Which sounds great.

Guy Friend, upon entering the restaurant/bar, sat down in the big, round booth, which was conducive to sitting closely together, but kept his proper spatial distance and gave me his usual half lip-half cheek smooch greeting. Had I turned my head a millimeter, I'd have landed that ever-elusive kiss that has been looming over (mostly my) our heads for more than a year (his ever-so-brief kiss on my lips like a year and a half ago, I don't even count much, because I think he feels impossibly guilty about it, inexplicably, bawk bawk).  He ordered some coffee, with me nursing that glass of iced tea the whole time. (Perhaps best we didn't go to Starbucks, where my usual dose of crack is the venti (large size) half coffee/3 espresso shots with steamed soy milk. He'd have been peeling me off the walls after that on an empty stomach.)

It was lunchtime, but no food was consumed, not that I would've eaten anyway. (I'm on effective low-calorie intake since my mother's proclamation that I was looking "heavier" through the middle in my tank top, weighed myself and exceeded 120 lbs. by 4 lbs. That bowl of cereal I consume before bedtime to help me fall asleep is turning me into a heifer.)

Talkety-talk was kept benign and friendly, and fun, mostly about my school, the world of psychology (I told him I was profiling him as we spoke, which I was, though I shan't diagnose him with anything at this juncture of the blog.), my anxiety, The OKC Thunder and the NBA finals (no, it didn't seem like a good time to interject that The Flaming Lips' "Race for the Prize" is the Thunder's rallying song for the finals), art, Freud's cocaine addiction and numerous relationships, Kate, Boston, Costa Rican waterfalls, Luke and guns, his work, his kids, his co-worker nearly going insane, his mother, Paul McCartney, buying cameras, strategic church seating, and Best Male Friend only made like 2 or 3 appearances in the conversation, which was only appropriate as I was there to spend time with Guy, not further egg on their machismo laps around the shark pool known as Annie. His wife was embedded in the typical pronoun of "we" in conversation and not referred to by name, just like his daughters, who I can never keep straight.

He did like my fresh, new haircut, which I must say is faboo, as always. You have to love how the gray hair just STICKS OUT of your head like porcupine needles. No dyeing for this broad, no way. I earned every gray hair on my head, thank you. We all have. (Given my Dad was almost all gray by age 35, I count my blessings. Though I have more gray hair than my 68-year old mother.)

While my sense, from his invitation, was that he didn't want to spend the visit talking about music, I explained George Harrison's "Cheer Down," which essentially means to "chill out," though I think what confused him was WHY on EARTH I would suggest he "cheer down" via my musical compilation when he's such a laid-back guy, at least with me, though the song does explicitly imply that the singer wants the muse around, and it's ok to have the occasional hissy fit, and that he'll love ya anyway.

No, I didn't want to freak him out or worse, hurt his feelings, by my honest observation (based on being friends with him for upwards of 3 years) that while I love and accept him for the man he is, 'cause he's a doll, he's one of the most religiously-psychosocially repressed people I've ever been friends with. Maybe part of it's a generational thing, or a Catholic thing, I honestly don't know. The more time he spends with me, the "looser" he gets and he has a lot of fun. When we go a long time without being around one another, he retreats back into his predisposed apprehensions and rigid mores.

I observe and respect moral and societal standards to a limited extent, though I'm an anarchist, anti-authoritarian and a non-conformist, especially when it comes to my religious beliefs, which are frequently a direct opposition to the tenets of the denomination in which I was raised. I understand his vigorous sense of right vs. wrong, despite the fact that it's not me who historically blurs those limits. He, in turn, tends to project his expressive repression upon me, which is sexist, unfair and inconsistent, as if I'm a tart. Best male friend told me I innately give off an unconsciously "alluring vibe."

(And I largely reject Freud!) So what did I do? I sent Guy Friend a mildly tongue-in-cheek, suggestive Father's Day someecard in which I deemed him "hot." (Great, now he'll be scared away for months.) Why? Honestly? It was late at night and I was tanked on my meds and as I said a couple of days ago, I'm getting my mojo back and consequently feel extra-frustrated.

Best male friend, after a recap of events, conceded a victory in Guy Friend's favor, not only as he did a few days ago, by praising Guy Friend's professional prowess and knowledge converse to Guy Friend not being as artistically minded as he is, but also by telling me that in a lot of ways, Guy Friend fills voids and satisfies needs/wants of mine that Best male friend never can, not simply because of the distance factor. Which is, as he said, sort of the whole point of having a diversified group of people you call "friends." Best male friend said, "It's too bad you can't be in more than one place at a time, because the world could use more Annies." MORE Annies? While the world would be a very huggable place, it'd be bedlam.

Kate, meanwhile, has BOTH of them figured out.

(When Best male friend was in acute crisis both physically and mentally, his own wife conceded the plan of action to me, understanding, with knowledge of our relationship's complicated history, that she wasn't equipped nor was she willing to "deal with him" and she, likewise, knows there are things about him that I uniquely understand and jive with that she never will. Like I've said before, I respect her place and she respects mine, even though she and I couldn't exactly be called "buddies." And she knows he, gasp, kisses me! Sin!)

Guy Friend and I spent about 1 1/2 hours together catching up, though much of what *I* wanted to cover never made it into the conversation and consequently, I'm actually considering giving him the 10,000+ word email/book I've been slowly writing him over time that explains how I feel and why about lots of topics, and various other observations and anecdotes, in order to help him understand some basic principles and alternative philosophies, about which I'm sure he's unfamiliar and would rock his world (in an enlightening, educated fashion, from a fresh perspective, rooted in both the street and intellectual wisdom I've adopted during my relatively short life and the education and experiences I've had). My anecdotes are Keith Richards' worthy. Seriously.


No, I didn't ask him for the third time whether or not he ever figured out who Syd Barrett was. I didn't muster the courage to ask him what his wife thought of me after having met me (if she had any opinion yay or nay) or if she was aware that he and I were even meeting for coffee. I didn't bring up my birthday party at all. I indicated that I wanted to see him again soon, and he said he had relatives flying in the early part of July, so it's unlikely I'll see him before mid-to-late July, which sucks, unless we get together for dinner after work some night, which I'll certainly suggest.


He said he enjoys my blogs overall but feels that my blog tracker "invades his privacy" and he wishes he could read me privately, without my knowledge, I guess, which puzzles me, given this is MY web site. It's an honest, autobiographical account of my world for the public to read though, yes, he's featured in my writing, because he means something to me, so his opinion is valid and I understand that much. But anyway, I don't closely monitor when he reads what, so it's not like I'm reading over his shoulder and he, like the rest of the world, is free to roam. The blog tracking software is, for me, now just a source of amusement to see what crazy shit people Google and land on my writing, like "douching is good". Certain nosy, unwelcome, potentially threatening readers abandoned the blog months ago, which means I either finally exhausted them or they've moved onto somebody else over which to neurotically obsess.



Published authors know the demographics of who's buying their books, just as other media outlets know their demographics, like the Neilsen ratings, for example. Why I keep track of my overall readership is my own business, which might someday make fiscal sense, and for my own edification. It's interesting data. (Like, it's fascinating to me to see that someone went through the trouble of running my blog through a Turkish translator. What is the Turkish word for "douchebag?") I told him that I don't care WHEN he reads it, as long as he reads it.

Just wait until I write the screenplay for my life story, Guy Friend!

I was in the middle of the parking lot with him leaving, our cars parked far away from one another, and it didn't even seem like he was going to hug me, as we made idle goodbye chit chat and he seemed in a hurry to split. Instead, I reached out my arms to him and let him control the scenario. Got a big hug and, consumed with frustration over "Will he FINALLY kiss me?" I forgot to give him my one-of-four copies of George Harrison's new CD of early and alternate takes. (Warning! If you kiss someone who's insane, it IS, in fact, contagious!) (He didn't kiss me.) Once I got home, I texted him that I forgot the CD, because I was distracted by the tension over whether or not he'd kiss me and that I'd save George for next time. Naturally, he didn't respond to THAT text, because THAT text was scary and had to do with latent chemistry, which he occasionally avoids but is obvious. Did we not learn anything from the 1960's? (Well, I didn't, obviously, seeing as I was born in 1972.) 

Which of Harrison's early takes did I really want him to listen to? "Behind That Locked Door."

Ultimately, this is the lesson I'm trying to teach him about seizing the day, a universal life-ism.  As some friends of mine famously sang, "All we'll ever have is now":

....Unless my original hypothesis from a blog or 2 (or 3, I don't know) ago is true and he innately finds me utterly repulsive. (Which both Kate and Best male friend think is hogwash. Best male friend's impression? He said I was "striking.")

"Do not go where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

OR:

It's a shame I didn't get around to explaining the Fluxus art movement to him, which is the discipline Yoko Ono was a part of. Meanwhile, I just keep channeling my inner Yoko and abiding patiently.

In other news, Worst Facebook Status of the Day? Why am I friends with this woman??

Ok I am not feeling well at all. This surgery has my body.out of wack very bad. Worried about Blatter they hit by mistake during surgery amongest a post op complication causing pain. But this I leave in the hands of my Dr.s

Seriously? "Amongest?" "Blatter?" Holy Jesus! PS, I'd sue anyone who perforated my bladder. Is it any small coincidence that this woman's daughter had to be held back another year? Yet more testimony as to why I don't chit-chat with the other parents outside of school and wait for Luke in the car. I just can't tolerate idiocy. 

Went over my homework reading and will study at great length Monday night, in preparation for my first Abnormal Psych test. I think if I go in with an "I'll ace this!" attitude, I'm destined to fail. If I go in with low expectations at excelling, I'll fare much better. It's my way of mind-fucking myself. 

Came across this interesting graphic today, which is certainly true:

So that was the big Guy Friend Round-Up. Fun, interesting and insanely frustrating. 

Christ, You Know It Ain't Easy.

Friday:

There's a new tabloid-ish book out about celebrities, Backstage Pass VIP, by Debra Sharon Davis. In her book, she makes the claim that George Harrison suffered from OCD when it came to the cleanliness and organization of his home studio, F.P.S.H.O.T. (Friar Park, Henley-on-Thames.) and his gardens on the estate. She purports alleged anecdotes from his colleagues that indicate that Harrison had a "tea boy," whose sole responsibility was to make tea continuously, clear empty tea cups from the studio, and remove soiled napkins and residual crumbs. Even if she got anecdotal missives from his friends and colleagues, that's not sufficient for a psychological diagnosis, it's hearsay. Yes, I was paying attention in class this week!

She says:

"It appeared that for Harrison, wrestling with OCD symptoms, one wayward teacup or crumbled napkin constituted a distracting, paralyzing, chaotic mess that hindered his concentration and made him extremely nervous" and that he ""had surgically structured his life as if he was balancing on a flimsy tightrope above a pool of crocodiles."

Uh, m'kay. She says this all as if it's a bad thing! Anal retentive about keeping HIS OWN studio clean? And HIS gardens, that HE planted? From everything I've read and heard about him, which is a helluva lot more than most of ya'll, he was purely a tidy bloke. Always had been. Which doesn't mean he suffered from a very real psychiatric disorder, though if he did, he'd have been the first to admit it. I read somewhere about a legendary argument between George and Ringo, during which George told Ringo to "put the fucking tea cups back in the fucking cabinet." (Man after my own heart.) I wonder if he meticulously dusted all of his guitars, which would make him even hotter!

Shit left lying around makes ME nervous, though it's *not* one of my diagnosed OCD's. (My OCD's are way more particular and, well, neurotic.) There's nothing in any other Harrison biography or even in his autobiography, or anecdotes from either of his 2 wives that would implicate that George had OCD. Sensationalism, pure and simple. (The author also claims John Lennon was bulimic, which is another factoid I find very hard to believe. FYI, this book is only available electronically. It was never "properly" published.) Leave the poor dead Beatles alone, people.

The other big Harrison news of the week? George's look-alike son, Dhani, got married at Friar Park, to an Icelandic former model who is now a practicing psychologist, who's name is long and unpronounceable. I have no choice but to assume Dhani has good taste, though dude, as a couple? You suffer from Napoleon Syndrome, comparatively. Get some lifts for your shoes or tell the missus to not wear such high-heeled boots! (Also known to us oldsters as Dudley Moore/Susan Anton Syndrome.)

When I said they were look-alikes, this is an example, though Dhani is only like 5'6", and George was 5'11", and I think Miss Iceland is like 6'1":

Double generation oof!

My thoughts on marriage, honestly?

Right?

Week One of Abnormal Psych wore me the FUCK out. I'm just not used to the pace yet, having had all this free-wheeling creative time the last several months. In a way, my brain needed to chill out and pursue art, which thrilled my heart, though it wasn't economically viable. I have no doubt that had the looming daunt of the hysterectomy and the pneumonia a week into winter term hadn't happened, I'd be a semester ahead in school and taking classes downtown. It's the consortium's opinion, however, that my sabbatical was good for my overall sanity, though I dealt with both manic and depressive episodes. I'm inclined to agree, looking at it objectively. 

Seriously, I pressed forward until about 3pm after school yesterday, then took a 3 1/2 hour nap. Luke was out with his friends all afternoon, so I had some quiet time. I decided to give myself today and tomorrow off from studying. I woke up this morning at a reasonable hour, 7:30 am, but was falling back asleep on the patio by 8:30 am, while catching up with my online stuff. My mom called me in and demanded I go back to bed, which I fought but eventually caved into, and proceeded to sleep until 11:15 am. I had a lot of erranding to accomplish today, which all got done, and then I had therapy at 3 pm. 

My therapist thinks I'm making huge progress in dealing with my PTSD as my therapy with her is rounding to an end, naturally, and I'll be assigned a new extern in the next couple of weeks. (It seems like you're on the cusp of major breakthroughs and gains when the therapist you've established a relationship with is torn away from you.) I had been talking about it with SuperJuls the last couple of days too, and while it's annoying and ill-timed, and could be hormonal, I'm actually, finally getting my sex drive back (which does nothing for me other than to annoy me). Months ago, the only men, apart from family members (including Craig) and Pastor Dave, whom I'd allow to even hug me were Best Male Friend and Guy Friend, well, and Wayne Coyne, because he's just too huggable.). This may be the first case of "healthy" sexual frustration ever documented. I'm sure if it were just getting laid that I wanted, I could always hook up with my still-on-excellent-terms ex-boyfriend (NOT CHRIS), but I'm choosing not to. I dunno, I have to talk to Kate about it. Back crawling into the convent, I go. Argh!

(Shitpickles! I am! With both of them! Must I mention that again?!? How many times does one have to post George Harrison's "I'd Have You Anytime" before those jackasses get a fucking clue?)

I explained to my therapist that I'd been manic recently (she and I haven't met for 2 weeks because she was on vacation), then stabilized, then got both manic/depressive after plowing through a 60-page chapter in my psych book in one fell swoop on Wednesday, in between texting Best Male Friend, who was, as usual, asking about Guy Friend and his idiosyncratic quirks, and coincidentally finds my relationship with Guy Friend amazingly amusing and entertaining, especially the fact that Guy Friend won't so much as properly kiss me, whereas Best Male Friend recently raised the bar . Best male friend called it a draw, though, the other day, when he admitted he knows even less about Guy Friend's profession than Guy Friend knows about pop culture. 

But I digress.

In the future, my therapist said to break up the reading into more manageable chunks, instead of trying to plow through a chapter all at once, when panic tends to set in and I get overwhelmed, which I largely alleviate by smoking and reading at the same time, which, as we all know, is unhealthy. She said that when she was in grad school, she'd often sleep for 7 hours on Saturday mornings/afternoons just to make up for the energy expended in school. If this is just a taste of grad school, DANG. I was "more than having a newborn at home" tired. Such an enormity of material is NOT easy. It takes a LOT of concentration, which is why I haven't blogged since the first day. Too dog tired. 

We had a quiz every day. We went through about 120 pages of material plus over 100 Power Point slides. By Thursday, I couldn't think straight anymore. I was shaky, not able to eat, nauseated, exhausted and had a splitting headache, while leaving the Excedrin at home. All that BEFORE class on Thursday morning. Last night, I was in bed around 9 pm. (And stayed there!)

Somewhere down the line, I missed the memo that in order to BE a doctor, not only do you have to start thinking like a clinician not as a patient. (That's not always easy, because I relate to almost all the freaky crazies, except the schizos. But God help me.)  But that you have to STUDY a lot to BECOME a doctor too. That sort of blows. Can't I just go on my vast personal experience with therapy, addictions and disorders? No, wait. I'd turn everyone into me. That *wouldn't* be good, despite my fabulousness.

Saturday morning:

Woke up at 7:30 am, again, not an unreasonable hour, and had an email from Guy Friend about meeting for coffee & chit chat tomorrow, which means I had to move my haircut appointment up to 11 am from 2 pm. I need a phone symposium with Kate beforehand, as Guy Friend, who, by the way, signed his email "Guy Friend, " which is amusing, said we could talk about topics other than music. As long as it's not Lichtenstein, I'm game. I just need myself centered (not self-centered) by Kate in the Way that Only Kate Can. 

Guy Friend listened to at least some of the CD I made him, and is particularly interested in George Harrison's "Cheer Down." It was a rare single that appeared on the "Lethal Weapon 4" soundtrack but made it onto "The Best of Dark Horse 1976-1989". He doesn't know what to make of it. It's really pretty straightforward. Essentially, it's "Keep Calm and Carry On," before that term became culturally popular. It's like "bad shit happens to all of us, and you just keep loving and accepting one another regardless. Calm down!" "There's no tears to be shed. I'm gonna love you instead. I want you around. Cheer down!"

I figure I'll read half of Monday's homework today and half tomorrow. I still haven't switched seats in my classroom to facilitate getting to know other fellow students, and neither have the girls who sit around me. Glad it's not only me who appears laden with anxiety about moving around. I never got a chance to daydream this week, which is one of my healthy forms of escapism, apart from when I was driving, which is dangerous. 

Choosing not to go to church tomorrow, for Pastor Dave is in Texas visiting family, and I'd miss his always-interesting sermons, which will be no doubt delivered by one of the church Elders (read: dry as a bone). But remember this:

Abnormal Psych has already taught me that I didn't impossibly scar my son for life and pre-dispose him to a litany of mental health crises for later in life, his genes aside. As I've talked about Luke before, he has resilience. He has drive. He excels academically. So far this summer, he's been a bike-riding, social butterfly. The book indicated the kids either end up a) totally fucked up (I'm paraphrasing) or b) tough as nails. Luke is the latter. Huzzah!  

So tomorrow is Father's Day. Never been a big fan (since 1984, anyway). Will be happy to spend it with whom I'm spending it. Ladies and gentlemen? Appreciate your daddies. Love them richly. As for my biological father, who certainly can't claim the brilliance, though the older I get, the more my mom thinks I look like him? 

This, admittedly, amused me highly today. What a surprise:

Yeah, mom, telling me I look "bigger in the middle" in my tank top and that I've "gained weight?" Big mistake. Someone with body dysmorphic disorder, who is underweight, just looked in the mirror and saw the 216 lb woman she once was. Way to go! I won't eat now for like 2 weeks! Because, goddamnit, one thing I'll never be again is F.A.T.

See you on the flipside!

Check, Check, Check, Check, Check and Check!

From yesterday. Please click on the photos/slides to blow them up (not literally):

Abnormal Psychology Professor's Tip, Day One: Try not to self-diagnose. Try not to diagnose your friends and loved ones. Throughout the course of the 7-week term, we will learn about a myriad of psychological and psychiatric dysfunctions and disorders. She urged us not, as so many medical students are prone, for example, to label Grandma Meredith as schizophrenic (please, she's totally bipolar). Medical students in a GI rotation are quick to "diagnose" Uncle Bob as having Barrett's (not Syd this time) Esophagus every time he complains of heartburn. OB/GYN residents assuredly tell their wives they certainly must be approximately 8 months pregnant and are ready to hook up a doppler and check for effacement, when in actuality, Honeybuns just *really* led her mid-section go to pot.

Just because my mom is meticulously trying to iron a church linen into 3 equal, perfectly aligned (symbolic of the Holy Trinity) sections doesn't mean she has OCD, though while chatting her up about today's Abnormal Psych class and watching her iron, *I* nearly had a nervous breakdown. (She finds ironing relaxing, whereas I find it gravely irritating and overwhelming. She said I have no patience. Duh! Lest we forget that Luke and I are the Duke and Duchess of Instant Gratification, as my ex-husband insists! Ironing drives me loony!)

The professor, a licensed clinical psychologist, didn't say, however, what to do if you, yourself, the student, have already been diagnosed (by professionals!) with and are being artificially, chemically balanced for a myriad of the myriad of disorders about which we'll be educated. The most information she garnered about each of the approximately 20 of us was our first names (which she indicated she'll soon forget, though she has a daughter named "Andrea," which she pronounces differently than the way my name is pronounced, ack. WHY didn't I just say my name was "Annie?"), what our prior education amounted to and why we're taking the course (I think there were only one or two other post-grads, and I was the oldest one there, and golly, the field of occupational therapy will soon be overflowing with job seekers...) and one interesting thing about each of us. (I said that I was a drummer.) At no time today during class did I forewarn the professor and my fellow students that I'm, in fact, clinically batshit crazy with like a zillion different psychological and psychiatric disorders, though she'd probably try to convince me to refer to myself as a "co-morbid, challenging patient" rather than an "impractical, barely-functioning, yet highly creative fucktard* on multiple meds who's cognitive dysfunction and memory problems from years of drug abuse and alcoholism are severely exacerbated by dooming mental illness, but is otherwise a total savant."

(*While the term "fucktard" is derogatory, I learned today that calling someone "retarded" is actually, clinically correct, though the Angels of Political Correctness like to umbrella it under "mentally handicapped," or otherwise, erroneously deem all of the mentally ill as being likewise "mentally handicapped." To call someone "borderline retarded" is *not,* in fact, incorrect or derogatory, even if they're as dumb as a stump (please, it's a joke. I beg forgiveness from the all the Dumb Stumps who read Rhythms).

I thought it best to impart my personal tidbits of insanity into the course as they came on-topic. More fun that way! Plus, my residual bipolar hypomania as of late has re-stabilized into what I like to call "As Normal As I Ever Get, Which Is Still Pretty Fucking Abnormal, But What the Hey?" The professor wanted a mini-vitae today, not my medical history. We'll save the "They actually DO throw trays of food at one another in the psych ward!" anecdotes for later. That being said, I had to laugh to myself when she showed one Power Point slide in particular, which outlined certain criteria for what is clinically considered "abnormal behavior." In my head, I checked, "Yep, yep, yep, yep, yep and YEP! That's me!"

(Thanks again to the manufacturers of the miracles that are Geodon, Lamictal, Zoloft and Estazolam, without whom....)

Yeah, that just about covers things!

As prophesied, I got up at 5:30 am this morning for my 9:45 am class, even though the Actual Annie Physically Getting Ready Process, minus coffee and writing, including eating, (though I only ate an Atkins bar and nearly gagged trying to eat an apple, read: conditional anorexia, or stress-starving.) takes only about an hour and school's only 20 minutes away from home. (Read: a combo platter: anxiety disorder & OCD.) I awakened charged after an entirely pleasant dream about scoring all-access passes to a George Harrison concert (by virtue of my association with The Flaming Lips), circa 1988, at the height of his "Cloud Nine" comeback. In my hand, I held a bunch of long-stemmed, deep purple flowers (I don't know what kind they were. But I'll bectcha anything it's a photographic memory of something I saw on the grounds of his estate, Friar Park, because brains are weird that way.) that I got in a long queue to hand to him on his tour bus.

Distinctly, I remember he was wearing his "I am an erotic being" subliminally embedded sport coat, which he did wear around that period, he was clean-shaven and when it was my turn, I handed him the flowers. I then put my hands together and offered him a Hindu blessing (kind of the equivalent of crossing yourself if you happen upon the Pope, after you smooch his ring). There was nothing to rally SuperJuls in to interpret with this dream. I honestly think George just wanted to stop in my unconscious and say "Cheerio!" as I embarked upon another chapter in my continuing education, which is a thousand times better than my usual "anxiety dream" of not being able to find my classroom on the first day of school. (An honest-to-God fear I have bordering on clinical phobia.) Thanks, George.

MWAH!

My GPS was on in the car, talking over my music, despite the fact that I do know how to get to the school, as I've taken a course there before and have been there dozens of times (Read: anxiety disorder.). I indeed did arrive at school 45 minutes before class in order to find my room, only to notice another class was taking place, and I couldn't enter the room, which concerned me, whereupon I went to the Enrollment Center "just to double check the room in which my class was meeting." (Read: Having an acute panic attack.) I had the room right, which was a stroke of luck, as I was triple checking the school web site yesterday to verify the room number (Read: OCD.) which had actually been changed since the LAST time I checked, uh, the day before. If only my professor had double-checked herself, as she arrived 7 minutes late, as did a few trickling students.

I poised myself in a strategic seat: 2nd row, far left end, southpaw-friendly, view of action not compromised by a computer or other heads. Normally, when I stake out a seat in a classroom, I fully plan on sitting in THAT SEAT for the entire semester. Dr. Anne, however, announced that she wished for us to regularly change seats in order to get to know one another (cue MASSIVE anxiety attack!). I, on the other hand, was quite content to acquaint myself with the 2 people nearest to me and have that suffice.  (As I've said before, despite living my life freely over the internet, in person, I can be cripplingly shy meeting new people. Read: More Generalized Anxiety Disorder, yay!)

While there is copious textbook reading material, in which, it would seem, EVERYONE has schizophrenia and we manic/depressives are largely ignored (straight up, must they use schizophrenia in every example?), the professor's lectures are all on Power Point and further, available on her page of the school's web site. Instead of schlepping our books to class, we were advised to bring our laptops, which is cool, because I type a lot faster than I hand write, and can take notes directly beneath her slides on my computer. She did ask, however, that if we plan on web surfing during class, that we poise our multi-tasking butts in the back of the room. (Good to know. For those of you who may or may not be interested, my 140-character in-class, interrupting Tweets will be limited, for I am supposed to be paying attention. If you're not following me on Twitter, I'm @AndreaMiklasz. If you're not following me, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?  It's a protected account, private to the world at large, so you have to request to follow me and I have to approve you. Expect zingers! And no, not everything will be directed towards @stevendrozd, much to his relief.)

Quizzes are largely to make sure we COME to class in the first place, and are mostly group quizzes (thank Jesus, because there's nothing I hate more, with my millions of dead brain cells, than pop quizzes). I have my first exam next Tuesday.  We're covering an astounding amount of material in a very brief period of time. The final exam is "optional" and can only enhance our grades, not decrease our overall percentage. Too early to determine if I'll need it or not, though hopes are high that I'll do better than ok.

We have to write a dry, research-based paper, on any abnormal psych topic of our choosing. I say hell, go with what you know best, research based on the case study of a 40-year old Caucasian, divorced female with a 12-year old son, with PTSD residue from being severely abused, who is Bipolar II with mixed-mood episodes (manic and depressive at the same time). I'll be ahead of my time, because that combination in manic/depressive patients is actually quite rare. Rare enough *not* to have made it into the DSM-IV, but is supposed to be addressed in 2013's DSM-V. Finally! Now, whether or not we include the co-morbidity history of multiple substance abuse (narcotics and alcohol), NSSI (the new term for self-harm, "Non-Suicidal Self-Injury," certainly kinder than "cutter"), situational/conditional anorexia, clinical depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, OCD...actually, that might actually make up one's doctoral dissertation, not an undergrad-level research paper.

What'll be certainly more fun is the presentation of the topic of the paper, during which we have to Power Point our way or something through the disorder and make it sound interesting in order to teach the professor and students something they didn't already know about the chosen topic. I'm already thinking of Jonah Lehrer's Imagine: How Creativity Works and, as previously blogged, the connection he correlated between bipolar disorder and the emergence of prolific and influential art and creativity.

What fascinated me today was the slide on the normal distribution curve, which I probably haven't seen since my one math class at Knox. Odd that I enjoyed it, or what's more, I understood it, given it's math-related.

At last! Empirical data supporting the theory that I am an individual who falls into both opposite ends of the abnormality spectrum. My psychiatric disorders place me at the low end of the negative curve at approximately -1.7%, a representation of extreme behaviors/mental illnesses (the -0.1 is where the mentally retarded fall). I fall into the "normal" category, as I sat and thought about it, in as much as I'm average-looking, an average cook and use an average amount of Chapstick. At the other end of the standard deviation chart, I fall into the approximately +0.5% in terms of my intelligence quotient and prolific creative output. (which has been tested, of course, by professionals. My son, who is in the process of being extensively tested, will most likely fall into the same percentile. That +0.1%? Those are the way-out-there-super geniuses. It's important to note two things regarding this chart: 1) Mental retardation is considered a deviant behavior or condition in society. 2) Being considered gifted or a genius is not a deviancy. This puzzles me, because technically, they're both "abnormal.") 

So that was the first day of Abnormal Psychology. I did my homework and survived. Thank you to Balderdash & Verities for the yellow highlighter I used in my book. Since you fired me over diarrhea medication, why not have the police come after me for a stolen office supply? Oh wait. Yeah. I still have those 18 pages of data about you all stalking me on the internet. Never mind! (Not that ya'll read me anymore, which is most relieving.)

In other news, I went to FINALLY pick up my much-needed Lomotil (the legendary pill that got me fired) and couldn't help but notice something in the entrance of Jewel/Osco, between the doors. Note: If something random says "ECOLAB" on it, it's a pest-control company. What was betwixt the doors? A giant rat trap. That bodes well and welcomes shoppers for sure. Hello, my groceries will be coming from Dominick's or Trader Joe's henceforth. I love me some serious Trader Joe's, but I harbor a MAJOR intolerance for the tiny carts they allow mini-shoppers (read: kids under 4' tall) to use, which unfailingly get in my way during my shopping experience. Mommy and Skylar (God, I hate that name!) are haplessly meandering through the store, whereas I know what I need, I'm trying to get to it and your toddler and her organic raspberries are in my fucking way. In an effort to alleviate my aggravation, I hypothesized about the following policy being enacted at Trader Joe's: a mandatory rest period. Kind of like what they have at public swimming pools. Once an hour, for 15 minutes, all the kiddies have to leave the establishment, allowing only those over the age of 18 to shop in peace. (That's roughly how long it takes me to grocery shop there anyway.) Bingo! Problem solved. As per my psych book, I could always test my hypothesis on rats, which I evidently would have no trouble finding at Jewel/Osco. 

At least school's getting me out of the house and interacting with individuals of a reasonable level of intellectualism, though today was only the first day, and I haven't gotten to know my fellow students yet, because that's too scary. I told my neighbor, "But they're all KIDS!" to which she replied, "Eh, you look like a kid, you'll be fine." I'm ok at acquaintance-making. I just have otherworldly anxiety over it.

No, I will not participate in "study groups," thank you.

PS, Guy Friend? We still need to make plans to make plans. Like soon.

Stay tuned for more fascinating updates from the world of Abnormal Psychology and how it relates to the Offbeat Drummer.  For now, I have more deviant behavior in which to engage. Shalom!

Of Little Substance, With Commentary.

Today was inspiring mostly via pictures, not words. Click the pictures, as always, to expand them. It's fun!

My Guy Friend finally had a chance to catch up with all of my e-cards, blogs and emails, except the one I never sent, but including the mutually-generated someecard my best male friend and I made to apologize to him for our shenanigans last week. He then (gasp! He never texts!) texted me the following: "I am fatigued thinking about all the energy your mind generates." That was a compliment, though I replied, "Just imagine being me!"

School starts tomorrow, so a shift in priorities is in order. I'm anxiety-ridden about finding my classroom. Thus, I will arrive 45 minutes before class. I used to do that at Knox too and I freaking lived there for almost 5 years and I knew my way around. There's scant limit to my psychotic anal-retentiveness. It could be worse. I could be at Balderdash & Verities:

"Yum" isn't a real word. It's an exclamation. A sound one utters. Like "blech!" Anyway, this is tonight's venue in which Roger Waters is going to perform "The Wall." (Photo courtesy of my friend who is one of the road managers.) My Guy Friend wasn't at the Waters show in Chicago, which is redeeming, and he did read a negative review of the show, which isn't surprising.


In talking about Roger Waters and Pink Floyd, I thought that was the perfect segue into my follow-up question to Guy Friend: "Have you figured out who Syd Barrett is yet?" which, sadly, he hasn't "had a chance." I still think putting "Dark Globe" on his CD was a good choice. It's universal humanism. It's explanatory, overt pleading inter-mixed into what's otherwise a very ambiguous lyrical piece. No, I haven't directed him to that blog entry... (Roger Waters, Yum! Only $250 per douchebag! Tonight only!)

Instead, he was at the Lichtenstein exhibit at the Art Institute, about and of which I was unaware. I was very excited that he was out looking at art, and experiencing something more likened to creativity, and told him it all sounded cool, honestly, despite Lichtenstein, just as I think Andy Warhol is REALLY overrated, but recognize their importance in art history. But there's some poetic justice in inundating the man's vibrating pocket with texts while he's admiring "pop art" or "art that pops."  There he stood, looking at modern art, while modern artists were bugging him on his phone, which, at a certain point, he had to deflate, or I would've gone on and on. Kate said that Lichtenstein was all about how lifeless the world has become, and that's certainly true. Coincidentally, I happened upon a wad of Lichtenstein posters going for $60 a pop on a web site that Kate and I frequent, onekingslane.com. Warhols too. Have at it!

Not a fan of, let's call it "comic book art," which is sophomoric at best, or art reminiscent of advertising,  which is too capitalistic, there's only one Lichtenstein painting I'd consider hanging anywhere, "Hey You." I like it because it's socially defiant. Accusatory. I could do without the suit coat and shirt with cuff links, which symbolize the mainstream establishment. My personal opinion of Lichtenstein's caricatures is that people in reality, their forms, their hearts, their brains cease to exist and he chose to objectify individuals into what was deemed societal perfection during his era. Women are inaccurately portrayed. I wonder if Guy Friend understood the implications of the art he was observing or if he took it all at face value. It's best to ignore whatever the gallery tries to tell you about a piece of art and look at it from your own perspective. What this tells me isn't necessarily what it's going to tell you, or Kate, or Guy Friend or anyone.

 We can all look at art and say "That's cool. I like it. It's edgy." But WHY? What is the artist trying to show you?  Visual art, like poetry, is open to interpretation. This I realize. Sometime, Guy Friend should walk about the Art Institute with me. It'd be an eye-opener. It seems like I expend emotional energy in an effort to make Guy Friend understand emotions when they're not direct and are either metaphorical or implied. Whereas I come from a discipline where feeling was favored over thinking, artistically, he's just the opposite. It's frustratingly beautiful. Maybe the next time I see him, I'll explain the Fluxus movement in the 60's. Seriously cool shit.

Roy Lichtenstein, "Hey You," 1973. When I was a year old!

Wow, that's pretty damn mad!

Highest points for grossest thing I've seen in YEARS. Straight up, no chaser. Chicago Rib Fest action, which, after seeing, I threw up in my mouth, a lot. Smoked pig heads, for the love of Christ! As if the case for vegetarianism needed a boon:

The funniest thing I saw all day? The flow chart of Bonnie Tyler's 80's hit, "Total Eclipse of the Heart."  I've always had a soft spot for this song, inexplicably. Below: the chart and the music video, in case you need a refresher course. It's pretty self-explanatory. Turn around, bright eyes!

Luke split before dinner and went to Youth Group at church for some "mystery" dinner thingy. He left behind the arsenal, all set-up and manned by Walle, his faithful walrus. Included are: 2 pistols, an assault rifle, a TV remote, Kleenex, BB's, silencers, Bioshock 2, and the TV-Be-Gone, which turns televisions off everywhere with one click. He left ready for ANYTHING. Thank God!

David Byrne, of whom I'm a big fan, even though he dropped out of RISD (where Kate got her BFA), recently had an interactive art exhibit whereupon the visitors could step on dozens of guitar pedals and hear the various noises that they generated. Now THIS is modern art. Genius.

Guy Friend can't understand how it is that I know 3,000 song lyrics by heart and can make him thematic CD's, yet manage to forget half the songs I play with my own band. Maybe it's because I categorically dislike Contemporary Christian music, passionately. I don't know why my brain processes some things and not others. My conscious mind must block music that sucks. "You know my faults, now let my foibles pass." I'm not an idiot.  Lest you all forget:

Coolest, badass photo I saw all day, which is a musical truism? Maybe as a gift, I'll get Drozd a t-shirt that says the same thing about HIS lead singer:

The thing with Best Male Friend and Guy Friend? It's the same deal with both of them and I'm frustrated, a little. I don't know...each is (they deny) jealous of the other in his own (guilty, denying, unaware competitive) way, and they make that obviously known when each talks to me, when the two of them are honestly mutually exclusive and unrelated, though they both seem AWFULLY interested in knowing what the other is up to on any given day. True, I am the common denominator in the equation, but they're both SO different. 

 Each is vastly successful in his chosen profession and they both encourage me as I stumble towards bliss. One is emotionally open and forthcomingly affectionate, his feelings an open book, either because we've known one another for so long, or by virtue of the fact that he lives for the moment, having cheated death almost as many times as I have, and doesn't conform to society's standards; the other, Catholic, heavily guarded, affectionate but consumed with guilt (guilt being the world's most useless emotion) and though I'm relatively certain he doesn't have any spare "Annie-types" clamoring to spend time with him, the closest he ever came to complimenting my looks was to say my tattoo was beautiful, and he doesn't like tattoos per se, and told me once, when he picked me up, that I "looked great." I assume, by default, that neither of them find me remotely attractive, though Best Male Friend deemed me, borrowing from a Rolling Stones song, his "tits and ass with soul." Objectionable from a feminist point of view, but meant to be a compliment. (He said this, of course, before I *lost* my ass.) Guy friend? Who the fuck knows. 

Why do either of these male friends' opinions carry validity?  That's easy. I have PTSD as a result of the last man I trusted, which they both know, who's affection always came with a heavy price and saw me as a piece of property, glibly telling me, "I own you" as he emotionally and physically reduced me into submission and powerlessness, what self-esteem I had, shattered.  The man I ended up marrying flatly admitted he honestly didn't find me attractive way back in college, and my self-esteem was nonesuch, so off-kilter that I married him anyway when I knew I could do better, as presently validated by the guys from Knox who question why I ever even dated that schlub when I could've dated them. 

Psychologically, Craig had a conditioned response to a certain stimulus, let's say, that I couldn't penetrate, despite my best efforts. (I already covered some of this in http://theoffbeatdrummer.blogspot.pt/2012/05/i-hate-to-use-journey-song-title-but.html.) I went so far as to consult his psycholgy professor at Knox, who tried to assure me it was Craig, not me, who had the inherent issue. That he knew no differently, from an impressionable age. Thus, I was likewise reduced to being just a shell of a physical body off which he could pretend I was something or someone else, which was the historical norm our whole relationship, which fucked me up.  Between that and him letting me slowly kill myself without helping me? I just wonder if he has the same "problem" with his current girlfriend. Good luck with ALL that.

In summary: I have major self-image issues and have difficulty trusting men I care about. But I TOTALLY digress.

Tomorrow is best male friend's birthday. He'll be 43. (No, I haven't purchased a gift for him yet. He's even harder to shop for than Guy Friend. It's kind of like trying to shop for yourself, except you can't buy cute clothes.) Guy Friend wants me to wish him a Happy Birthday. (He'll LOVE THAT!) Meanwhile, at age 57, Guy Friend was lamenting about being "old and cranky." (Best Male Friend calls him "my old man.")  He's exhibiting this sudden generation gap complex when it comes to me that I haven't done a terribly good job, as a friend, of negating.  I told him, "You're just cranky!" then told him he's not *really* that old, and I meant that. His spirit is still young (most of the time) and he has a fit body. I consider both of them wise contemporaries. Guy Friend's mustache is graying and he has salt and pepper hair, which is attractive and whatever, I have a lot of gray hair myself and don't plan on coloring it. Best Male Friend's hair is salt and pepper too, more so every time I see him. Please, fellas. Truth is, I enjoy both of them, immensely, except when they snidely bitch about one another, even unaware that they're slighting one another, which is ALL THE TIME, although Guy Friend is encouraging me to spend more time with Best Male Friend, which is a strategic scheduling clusterfuck, and I want to spend more time with Guy Friend, only slightly less clusterfuckish in terms of nailing down a date. 

I dicked around online out in the sun again today, nearly as roasted as the pig heads:

This made me laugh aloud, thinking of Guy Friend, who's mustache I honestly do like on him:

In defense of smoking, Go Nabokov, go!

Gift idea for me? Fuck yeah!!!!

If you don't want to sleep on toast, you can actually sleep on waffles, even better!

On why I write:

Important lessons below, for friends to remember, like telling me that your kids got into a major car accident early in the conversation, instead of wasting time with Guy Friend vs Best Male Friend antics, Guy Friend!  Fill me in on the crucial stuff first, given your self-proclaimed statistic that these people are 95% of your existence. But you're indeed doing a much better job at staying in touch, which I do appreciate:

Ultimately, it means this, appropriate for ANY friend of any gender, and is certainly true of Kate and me, (worth the read, blow it up):

Anyway, I'm shitpickles and in the middle, watching all the drama unfold and bemused at at their mutual sarcastic infancy, though, despite their one glaring, invasive mutual trait, it's the Annie Confidant Collective's view that the two of them are shitpickles themselves. (Those of you who require a definition of "shitpickles?" See "gobsmacked.")  I feel that if God gave ME a say in things, which He hasn't, and neither have ya'll for that matter, I know what I'd do. Sheesh. Don't both leave me flapping my cheese in the wind. There's both absolutely nothing and everything wrong with the whole scenario. 

A few days ago, I was Boyd and you guys were ready to go all Clapton/Harrison, and while I ultimately would side with Harrison, I sympathize with Clapton's plight, which, at given moments in all of our history, I was ready to jump on each of your missus' asses about. 

Hey, I read the book you hid in my suitcase, Best Male Friend, and Guy Friend, I suggested you read it a long time ago. It's utter lunacy! Don't make me post the photo of the two of you together, which ranks as the World's Most Awkward Photo I've ever seen in the Guinness Book of World Records, for I have no desire to "out" either of you and soon you'll have your own record to break. 

Besides....

And always remember, as George said:

Til tomorrow. Keep it real.

Goodnight.