I have a feeling Xiu Xiu's first single 'Dear God, I Hate Myself' off their latest album of the same name will end up being my top Self-Deprecating Jam of 2010. After four years of being on the SSRI Escitalopram, I have made the perhaps foolish decision to wean myself off of it (under medical supervision). At present, I take such a hefty cocktail of medication (Lithium, Modafinil, Accutane, Yaz) at bedtime that often I vomit after ingestion. This Is My Journey...

A few mornings ago on the subway there was a dirty, homeless woman with matted dreadlocks and a pockmarked face parading up and down the car I was on, hitting up commuters for spare change. She made a point of asking everyone, except me. While at first I was relieved to be excluded, I realized she avoided me because I looked almost as sketched out as she did. Thanks to the symptoms of discontinuation syndrome, I was having the sensation that my chin weighed close to 200 lbs and was pulling my face down into my chest. I hadn't slept the night before, instead I had opted to watch the 2001 romantic-comedy, Shallow Hal because it 'spoke to me' so a ring the shade of a muted purple was forming under my eyes, I was strung out on Modafinil and feeling 'not present' and totally slumped over in my seat, head leaning against the window, talking into the popped collar of my jacket that doubles as a shield. This would be the same jacket with the ciagrette burn from ashing while disoriented and the mysterious hole growing in the right pocket that has served as a funnel for loose pocket change to enter the lining of the jacket. This means there are nickels and dimes circulating within my peacoat, meaning, I jingle when I walk. Basically, I should be a hobo's bread and butter. It would be so simple to jump me and then slash open my coat with a razor or a snaggletooth and pilfer the forty-five cents but they won't even go near me because they see themselves in my eyes.


Last week, while I was sitting in the waiting room at Sunnybrook's youth psychiatry wing, the first doctor I was ever paired up with who always ignores me, caught me ritualistically praying under my breath and seized the opportunity to speak to me for the first time in six years.

We had previously had a falling out that pretty much began at the beginning of our doctor/patient relationship. Bad blood stemmed from my decision to drop out of her research study on the effects of Celexa on mentally ill youth and her decision to hospitalize me because, according to her, "my mother needed a break".

As a tall woman, she took full advantage of patronizing me by crouching down to my level (literally and figuratively) to say in a baby talk voice, 'Hi Michelle! How are you?!' If I'm caught murmuring away to myself while waiting to see my psychiatrist, I guess I'm not doing too well, am I? Cheung: 1. McGlynn: 0.

Despite feeling incredibly ashamed, I 'grew a pair' and confided in my current doctor during our session about my relatively new, overwhelming, repetitive thoughts and urges to whisper to myself during the middle of lectures. I also mentioned my 'compulsions' to download a ton of movies that I'll never get around to watching, such as Varsity Blues, the inspiration for the theme of this blog. She thought that these thoughts of mine were "obsessive... but unusual" and maybe teetering on 'psychotic'. Maybe I shouldn't watch Varsity Blues, it could have the potential to push me over the edge.

Today was my father's 64th birthday, but it was overshadowed by my mother's freshly contracted case of conjunctivitis. I have theorized that she must have picked up this nasty eye infection at the casino, by touching slot machines thousands of other scumbags before her have touched, to potentially quell her 'problem gambling'. Instead, she's going to be vigilant about her health by wearing latex gloves when gambling in the future. My father, who doesn't care about anything other than contests, Internet porn and blowing $300 a month on lottery tickets, seemed legitimately bitter that his birthday was not joyously celebrated.
I had to endure a day of:
"my own daughter didn't even wish me a happy birthday"
"I'm 64 and there's no cake on my birthday"
"stock up the fridge with beer, it's my birthday" and my favorite,
"if all goes well, touch wood, this time next year I'll be collecting the old age pension".

The only downside to Dave turning 64 is that it gives him license to sing The Beatles' horrific, When I'm Sixty-Four whenever he pleases. He had been practicing his rendition of this song in the months preceding his birthday, but today signified the official kickoff of the Year of When I'm Sixty-Four, much to my dismay. I hate the Beatles so much that I resent being named after one of their songs. They're not even Irish. They could have at least named me something culturally relevant, like Bono. Or The Edge.