Banana Split

How do I wake up with deep cat scratches across my back? It's 3 AM and I have had no where near enough coffee yet.

I discovered the most wonderful flavor of ice cream last night at a little shop. Cappuccino, with toffee bits and streaks of fudge in it. It rivaled some men I have had, truly, and must have been invented in the kitchen at Hogwartz. Another gift from the wizarding world to us.

For those of you who have been tempted, when I was really bananas, I wanted to do a little field research. I was still going to the University and was working on a story about a CIA officer who had lost his wife. I just had to know what kind of ice cream he ate. It was essential to the story, you see. (This was BEFORE I started drinking again.) So I called the CIA building in Langley and explained what I wanted.

This is the part that may be interesting to those of you who have been tempted to do just that: call the CIA and talk.  Apparently, there are so many nutjobs like me out there that they have a special office to field our calls. Your tax dollars at work. No kidding. They gave me a phone number in Reston, VA, and I talked to a 'retired' officer about what flavor of ice cream he liked until he wormed it out of me that my Dad had just died and I had been sexually assaulted in the same summer.

 I suppose he was older, he sounded older, and after finding out I had no weapons in the house, and wasn't planning to harm myself, and discussing ice cream, he advised me to find a therapist. He also urged me to call back anytime I wanted. I'm sure I would have been talking to some policeman in person soon after. So now you know to whom you will be speaking if you ever get the urge.

Speaking of men reminds me of my medication shift. Off the Abilify until the next desperate episode where my psychiatrist won't give me any of the good meds. The 'good' meds also take away sexual desire, but you don't care. They are that great. I could get some on the black market, or go to a different doctor, but I am afraid of ending up in the looney bin. My non-suffering psychiatrist assures me I will end up in rehabilitation again if I insist on the good stuff. And he won't give it to me anyway. So. There is that.

But I think I will hold off about talking about sex and mental disabilities until tomorrow. I hope that isn't a spoiler for you, but I thought you deserved some warning, considering how well we know each other.