Trouble Follows Me

I was out with amigos: Anjali, her sister, her sister's "ex-boyfriend", Paco, Abdul and Abdul's friend. A pretty large group, I should add. Enter queeny bitchy little Palestinian-American boy, from here on referred to as Bitch. He's dancing up a storm with Anjali, looking like Geppetto is working overtime pulling his strings. He sort of gets in my way, but instead of stomping on him, I say hello. Anjali explains that he's Palestinian so I was like, "are you Palestinian?" and he goes, "I am half-Palestinian and half AMERICAN", but he says the "American" part like one would say, "you are f-ing RETARDED" in an argument. So I was like, hmmwhatadouche.

With very little else to say, I proceeded, "well, I really hope things calm down over there; I'm watching the news and Israel isn't being very kind." That was putting it lightly, of course. Israel is straight up taking a shit on human rights and dignity in Gaza. Gaza is akin to a dead dog in the road, stomach ripped open by a passing vehicle, worms and flies buzzing around it. Israel is the neighbor's dog who mounts the carcass and begins to ram his boner in and out of a hole in the rotting flesh until his body convulses with pleasure and he is relieved of one shot of dog jizz. But this little piece of shit turns around and goes, "Don't say that! I am AMERICAN. I support Israel." With my very finely tuned and perfected "WTF" look on my face, I responded, "That's too bad. Personally, my roots run deeper than one generation." I turned my back on the little pile of filth and walked off to tell Anjali of my encounter. Unfortunately, she was retarded and went back and told him what I said, apparently pissing him off. So little two-by-four Bitch comes over to me to "confront" me, telling me how he didn't appreciate me talking shit about him. I pitied him so much I even attempted to hug it out, telling him I knew he didn't mean it and I am sure he misunderstood the situation. But then the little twig upped the ante and threatened to beat me up! Ha. Haha. HAHAHA!

Looking down at him (literally and figuratively; he was about 3-5 inches shorter than I), I scoffed and laughed. At this point, knowing a fight would not be the way to go, he said, "get an education." Now, as the son of two parents who never went to college, I am by no means an education elitist. I don't look down on people for not having gone to college. I don't measure people by their level of formal education, but by their lack of ignorance gained through life experiences. When it comes to college and university, I actually don't really care if you went, didn't go, where you did or whatever. But, faced with this level of fuckedupness, I could no longer control myself and I went in for the kill.

Here is a lesson from my evil, calculated side. To understand how to truly crush someone emotionally, you must understand how their mind works. This little queen was an easy target and unfortunately quite typical in the gay community. Walking around the ego of his type is like dancing on eggshells. Shunned by society, and ugly on the inside (and I'd dare say on the outside too, although straight girls would describe his type as "cute"), he believes that if he dresses a certain way, and acts a certain way, he can combat the demons that undermine his status in society. Specifically, from the way he was acting, he had unresolved issues with being considered:

(1) a physically small male - to overcome this, he threatens me with violence. As if. Too bad I was the second-smallest man in the club. Real badass to come after me (sarcasm).

(2) a very effeminate/professional homosexual male - again, by confronting me, he is trying to be butch; to mimic the heterosexual man in a bar fight. Too bad he was wearing a silk shirt with a tie and painted-on shiny pants of some sort. He is the kind of man that straddles the fence between very-gay-looking-male, and very-butch-looking-female. Depending on the angle from which he is viewed, he could be one or the other.

(3) an Arab in America - no matter which way you spin it, if you're half white and half Arab, your white half is NEVER what anyone will see in America. You will always be an Arab. Supporting Israel in their massacre of your own people will never make you more American. I would argue that it makes you less American for being a sell-out, for being weak and for yielding to your own warped perception of social conformity.

(4) uneducated - his biting, scornful joust "get an education" seemed as if he was trying, unsuccessfully, to establish himself as better than me, at least on paper.

With this in mind, I was ready. I looked down at him, raised my nose and said, "I am in grad school. And not just any shit grad school that might be good enough for the likes of you. I am at WASH U. You, however, don't even look as if you've been to college. As a matter of fact, you look like a hairdresser. Know who you're talking to."

I then performed my flicking-off-the-dust motion in his direction as he walked away with his tail between his legs and humbly left the club.

Many will claim that they are Queen, but there is only room for one on the throne.

Medical Flipout

My doctor flipped her shiznit inside out. She was trying (badly) to hide her annoyance, but try as she might, she released her inner bitch and let me have it for quitting the Remeron. She moved from treating me as a fellow doctor (I think she forgot that I am in GRAD school, not MED school; stupid bitch), to a retard, to a child, and finally back again to her patient in a matter of about 10 minutes. So this is how it went:

Doc: so, how are you?

Me: well... (intro and extended explanation of symptoms)... and so I decided to stop taking it.

Doc: holy f^*#!ing shit motherfu%^er bitch face whore!

Okay, so she didn't exactly say that but I could read it on her face. In reality she just got pretty annoyed, adopted a fitting tone and proceeded to tell me "YOU tell ME what to do. YOU tell ME what exactly it is you want to do." Each time I tried to do what she asked me, she would interrupt with "you're telling me you don't want to take the medication that worked for you after you tried many others that didn't work, so now YOU tell ME what you want to do."

Eventually, after doing this about 4 times, she goes, "this is descending into an argument and I don't want that to happen."

WHATABITCH! What I really wanted to tell her to do was "how about YOU take some prozac or some vicodin and shove them up your every day twice a day and then call me in a couple weeks, you bitch" but instead when I finally got in my two cents I said, "I want to sleep again, and I don't want to get fat doing it." A polite statement topped off with a slightly bitchy frosting. I was pleased with myself because it shut her pie hole.

I think it is a wise idea not to piss off a psychiatrist too much. However, I really wish my beloved Dr. Winters would just take me back under her wings and just give me sleeping pills like she used to instead of sending me to see one huge bitch after another.

Psychiatrists are such con artists, really. They claim to be able to determine what "is best for you as an individual" with each patient they see. What this translates into is a gruelling process of trial and error where they just give one drug after another like a child playing Duck Hunt for the first time. Shoot shoot shoot - never mind aiming - just keep shooting and eventually, you may get one. An ordinary doctor is just as capable of doing that. As a matter of fact, my Muzza is just as capable of doing that and she is not a doctor, just a Muzza. Why do I have to pay this bitch $90 for 15 minutes to tell me what a magic 8 ball would? True, insurance pays 80 of those dollars, but the point is that she does not deserve making, on average, 360 DOLLARS AN HOUR for this bullshit!

Anyway, the end result is that my Ivy League educated doctor has given me yet another pill that is very very bad for you in large amounts (some people take 1000mg for schizophrenia and bipolar disorder) but that seems to be working to put insomniacs to sleep at lower doses. I fell asleep last night on only 25mg, which was a pleasant surprise because I am worried about the possibility of "involuntary facial movements" and sudden death that goes along with higher doses.

Lucky me, I get to go back to see her next Thursday. I can't wait.

Are You There Smirnoff? It's Me, Esa.

When my doctor told me she had a possible answer to my sleeping troubles I was so happy. She handed me a prescription for the drug Remeron, which she said was used as an antidepressant but does not have any of those annoying side effects like dry mouth, depression and inside-out-penis. What a remarkable drug! I was skeptical at first and asked what then was the reason that I hadn't heard of this drug before. She said it was very common for people to experience a gain in weight taking Remeron (aka Mirtazapine) and that since Americans have come to terms with the fact that they're losing the battle with the bulge, they're less likely to agree to take something that'll add on a few pounds. Well this was actually an even greater thing for me since I've been underweight for so long. My bones are literally falling apart under the weight of my gorgeousness.

So anyway, I took the Remeron and it was remarkable. I was sleeping 9 hours a night every night for the first time in my life. I was awake and alert during the day. I could focus on the things I was doing. I was calmer. I felt better. And I ate more. And more. And more. Actually, I don't think I ever stopped eating after the first few weeks of taking the damn thing. But that wasn't so much of a problem; actually, K-Money tells me that it's been better when I have lunch with her because I don't just sit there and watch her eat but I actually eat too.

Unfortunately, the problem eventually got a bit out of control. I would eat my stomach full and feel "stuffed" but I would still be hungry. And lo and behold, for the first time in my life, I could see an appreciable weight change. Since I started working out until pre-Remeron, I gained about 6 pounds. This was all muscle located in my shoulders and upper body. However, this took about 3 years to gain. Imagine that: 3 years to gain 6 pounds. And Adam still can't understand why I want to do steroids?! Anyway, the point is that now I am just delightftul and completely lickable up there in the shoulder and chest region as you would all know. My four-pack finally made its appearance and I was working on adding two more down below to complete that six pack and then toning and shaping my way into Mario Lopez stature when the Remeron struck.

For the first few months I was on a low dose and nothing seemed to change weight-wise. But then my doc thought that since I was tolerating it so well, I should prolly up the dosage and then is when disaster struck. In about 8 weeks, I gained 10 pounds. However, those 10 pounds did not exactly go towards the addition of more man candy but took up residence in a nice little ring structure around my tummy. Try as I may, the thing would not budge.

Now being brown it is inevitable that I will one day have a nice round tummy. It will happen. No matter what. All brown men will get a big brown round tummy. However, at 25 and single, I do not think this is the right time to handicap my potential romantic encounters with a big tummy. So I stopped taking the Remeron.

Stopping Remeron was like shooting myself in the face. There are no side effects to suddenly stopping it, but the sleep has gone. I have tried everything in my power to fall asleep but without help from my friend Smirnoff, or Absolut or sometimes if I am really happy, Grey Goose, I just cannot sleep. Over-the-counter sleep aids are also not helping. So basically, I am worse off sleep-wise than I was before I used the Remeron because back then at least the OTC stuff put me to sleep.

Anyway, luckily I have scheduled an appointment to see my doc tomorrow. I shall tell her of all of my troubles. She will likely scold me for my bad behavior and say, "you could do with a few pounds, I don't see why you're so upset about the weight gain." I will then take off my shirt and say, "if you were a 30 year old hot man, would you lick me here?" and point to my spare tire.

I will let you know how that goes.