I woke up at 2:30 this morning with the idea of doing this or something like it. Don't know what was so compelling about it at the time, but it sure shot the hell out of my night's sleep. Before I went back to bed, I discovered a wiry white hair growing straight out of my forehead. I took this as a sign that I should never, ever learn to speak German. In retrospect, I now take that as a sign that I should stop messing with my meds. But at this juncture, I can't tell whether "messing with" is defined as stopping them or resuming them. After all, as a friend pointed out, the natural state is a medless one. But after all, it was a doctor who thought meds would help correct an imbalance of something or other. And I can see the merits of each point of view. When I'm fully medicated (I can hear some people gritting their teeth over my broachification of this topic, but they have to understand that for this blog to have any value (for me), the unfettered outpouring of whatever festers in my interior skyways, whether sincere or jinking around for yucks, is a necessity, and let the chips fall where they may. This can sound incredibly selfish to ears tuned to a particular station, but we're all always incredibly selfish, even (or especially) when engaged in incredible selflessness, and while the assessment of the tangible results of our continual solo wrestling match is a legitimate undertaking, the bemoanization of our wretched, heartbreakingly ambivalent motivation is a mug's game.) So where was I? Ah yes, meds. Do I even know if they're in my system? I need to have the mental clarity afforded by my meds or by their absence even to be able to answer that question. If I had 65¢, I'd buy a Snickers.