I think I broke something in my cerebrum last night. That’s neither here nor there.
Everyone should have a doctor who just comes right out and says stuff like, “OK, I’m going to give you a prescription for either Xanax or Klonopin–which do you want?”
Or maybe everyone shouldn’t.
I, of course, when faced with such a time-sensitive decision, immediately thought which one will fuck me up more?
“Don’t they give Klonopin to schizophrenics? And, like, epileptics?”
I thought about these girls at school, the two Heathers, who wore matching Victorian hooker garb and fancy wigs and whose chins lolled on their chests at parties because they ate Xanax like M&Ms.
Then I thought about Margo Kidder in that Dumpster. “I’ll take the Klonopin, please.”
He wrote the scrip on a very official-looking prescription pad, with serial numbers and water marks and embossed frippery.
My doctor, who always sits as far as he can from me in the examining room, then extended his arm, the scrip in his hand. “Is this one of those meds that…ah….will go down on my permanent record?” I said.
He jerked the scrip away from me for a second, holding it aloft as though he were playing Monkey in the Middle. “Why, you running for President or something?”
“Well, no, but I might have to pass a co-op board’s muster at some point in my life, sheesh.”
“Nah, this won’t be a problem.”
“What if I want to adopt a dog or something?”
“Probably not an issue.”
Thank you, Doctor Feelgood.
Stroke me.
