Responding to Internal Stimuli

Wed Jun 04 2003 07:10PM -0600

I know it's horrible, and I am an awful, awful person for thinking it, but there is something refreshing about crazy people. There is just something entirely fascinating about listening to someone talk about all their whacked-out psychoses, about how snakes are coming out of their eyes or how they can watch cartoon in their head without needing a television or how their family members seem to change faces every day, and they have to keep replacing the pictures on the walls to accomodate it. No, I'm not just enjoying it like it were some kind of freak show. Maybe I'm just empathizing a little too much with these guys. A small, irrational part of me almost wants to believe them, wants to get drawn into their very bizarre world. (I have this fear that I am destined to go crazy.) I mean, there's something to be said about looking at the world with a pair of crazy eyes. I don't know. I just need to stay out of the acute psych ward as much as I can, I guess.

But speaking of mental illness, today I began to marvel at how dependent I have become on other people. (OK, one person in particular, who shall remain nameless for now, and who apparently does not suffer this disorder reciprocally. Why do I always get so whipped?) But I swear I am not usually like this. By the fourth consecutive hour I had spent by myself, I was ready to gnaw my arm off, and I had became desperate to talk to anyone, calling whoever I thought might be available (including an ex-girlfriend!), and hoping that my roommate would come home soon. (The one that I don't hate.) Alas, to no avail. There was no lifting my mood with caffeine, nicotine, or ethanol today, and I knew I was in dire straits when I finally got sick of listening to my iPod. (I eventually had to resort to listening to the 0wn3d radio stations which, if left unchecked, may have resulted in my self-inflicted untimely demiseâ€â€and read this explantion of l33t speak to better understand my typographical choice to spell "owned" that way.)

So, caving in to my despair, going against all advice, and once again surrendering my testicles, I called. No answer, voice mail picks up. Great. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Just kill me now. (Although I suppose it's magnitudes of order better than her on-again, off-again (ex?-)boyfriend picking up. There is clearly something wrong with me.)

This constant jitteriness, dysphoria, and craving. I wonder if I now have an inkling as to how a heroin addict feels like when withdrawing? I can only imagine that the dopaminergic reward circuits in my brain are completely burned out, rendering me unable to think of anything to do that would cheer me up.

But all hope is not lost: there is always boba.

I was introduced to bubble tea before it became trendy, as I worked in Monterey Park, CA, also known as L.A.'s second Chinatown. (I still remember that day that me and my sister walked the streets of L.A.'s original Chinatown in vain, as apparently boba is more a Taiwanese thing than a Cantonese thingâ€â€correct me if I'm wrong.) And then all of the sudden, I come home one day, and there is a Boba World sitting on Colorado Blvd in Old Pasadena.

But from what little I understand, the trend is passing. But still.

There is only one place in all of Chicago that I have discovered so far that will give you consistently decent boba (and I must add, the tapioca balls have indeed increased in quality ever since I started going there) It is at this, ironically, pan-Asian restaurant called Joy Yee's. (OK, there is some good stuff here, but, when comparing to what you can get in Southern California, well, I have to tell you, it's a little depressing. Oh well. I'm not a picky eater.) This is apparently the default setting when any group of Asians can't decide where to eat.

So yeah. Taro Tapioca Freeze. That snapped me out of it. At least for now.

God. I remember when I loved being by myself. (OK, maybe "loved" is an exaggeration. But I definitely didn't hate it like I do now.) Oh well. Not like I have a choice in the matter anyway. Apparently, I will fucking never learn. I need to start making a list of things that will distract me which won't involve losing too many neurons. (I can only go to the bar so many times. I think my liver is starting to get upset with me.)

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