The Joys of Psychiatry

So my psychiatrist says...

"You're getting sicker."

No fucking shit, you stupid piece of ever-so-observant, mother-fucking, ass-licking, dick-shifting, money-sucking, beemer-driving cock-sucker.

We could have avoided the appointment and had me CALL IT IN, you idiot.

Then we went through my entire diet and decided what I can cut out so that she can give me yet MORE pills I don't want to take that make me gain weight.

I can have: meat, vegetables, some strawberries, whole grains for breakfast, and limited low-fat or fat-free dairy. WOO! Now ISN'T MY LIFE IMPROVING AS FAST AS YOU CAN READ THIS?

Then she says, "You need to exercise to speed up your metabolism". No shit. I know this. We've discussed it before. I tell her I'm walking more but a) smog kills me and b) my back and knees are unhappy.

So she says, and this is my very favourite part of the whole appointment ... "Swim". Yup, I'm going to swim. I'm going to bare what I already consider to be a burgeoning body COVERED IN SELF-INJURY SCARS and get into a public pool. Sure. I can't wait for that to happen!

Go ahead. Ask me what kind of mood I'm in. ASK ME.

I hate that there's nowhere for me to drive. I briefly considered it after I left the appointment but I'd more than likely get lost. I just want to ... well, get LOST. For days. I need to be alone. Now whining is just whining, and here it is, folks. I just want to be ALONE. No reason other than I don't want to be touched, or laughed with, or reasoned with, or talked to. *I* want to fuck off.

Where do I go to fuck off?

There should be a map, at "Borders" that has a destination specifically marked as "Fucking Off". I'd go there. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd pitch a tent.