(and finds out that there is a limit to the length of a post title on Blogger)
First of all, I have not shaved my armpits in over a week, which M was all too happy to point out last night after I had noticed her looking-but-not-saying-anything at least twice. It should be said that she was provoked.
Anyhoot, moving on.
Today I went to the bank to make a deposit out of which The Bank will promptly remove at least half in order to serve their own selfish means in the form of outrageously high overdraft fees. I understand overdraft fees - you can't expect the bank to pay your bills, after all - but I submit that $35.00 is excessive.
Anyway, standing in line at the bank I thought that someone around me had to be a heavy smoker from the smell of it and I also noticed the feet of this elderly lady which fit perfectly into her crock/flip-flop hybrids. I mean perfectly. This whole revelation about how the toes and feet are supposed to be shaped (with a downward curve toward the pinky toe) as opposed to how my feet and toes are shaped (straight across) continues to make me marvel. Anyway, one of her heels had this sort of bulbous formation to it which is a foot condition I am not familiar with and could not name, if it even is a recognized condition, which it probably is, there is a Condition for everything, but in any case I was thinking very clearly that I am not, among the many things that I am, a foot fetishist. I find them remarkable and very telling, but I simply do not like them in that way.
Next, it was on to the library where I tried to look up and find a book that I had checked out and re-checked out for a grand total of four weeks occupancy yet had regretfully returned un-read because I was still struggling with that damn book for which I wrote the last review appearing here and also over at 5-squared. According to Library Guy, of whom I inquired, someone else has apparently got it, but - never mind - I checked out a good many other books and I'm sure the book I scorned and set aside shall pop up available eventually, at which time I will take it out to brunch and try to reconcile. I signed up for e-mail notification.
Of a more interesting note at the library, I paused to let a little troop of church children pass in front of me on their way out. At the tail end of the group was a large authority figure, a smaller, younger authority figure, and an even smaller figure, of no authority whatsoever. As you can imagine, that last one, he was crying. I felt so bad for him, especially because he was made to walk along stride with his offender whilst the eldest authority figure counseled the younger authority figure (the offender) (she was around 10 or 11, the littlest soul, the poor little boy, was around 7), that "sometimes they cry," if the situation exists wherein they are chastised too vigorously. On the way home I imagined that the younger, female authority figure had the makings of a bossy older sister and, ultimately, a teacher in our public schools, whereas the boy probably quite possibly had a future as a serial killer after this damaging event.
I tend to be optimistic.
Next it was off to the other bank where things went off without a hitch, and then to the pharmacy where I inquired as to what I might take to avoid my hair falling out on the Lamictal (I believe I've discussed Lamictal here previously, but if you are interested in Mental Illness drugs or drugs in general have a go at this, also The Wonderful CrazyMeds), even though I had some idea, I wanted to know if the pharmacist had any other tricks up her sleeve.
Which prompts me to tell of the fact that, in further Mental Illness Adventures which I have chronicled here, Dr. Psychiatrist was only semi-constructive in getting me off of the Seroquel because he was willing to taper but wanted to switch me to a traditional anti-psychotic instead which I do not want because I don't think I'm psychotic, just a little sleepless, but who knows as I've been on one AP (that doesn't mean "Associated Press," try to keep up with the context clues in this paragraph to decipher my acronym) or another for years now. The urgency with which Dr. Psychiatrist communicated his opinion that I was in crucial need of an anti-psychotic really made me feel awful. He us utterly convinced that I suffer from bipolar disorder, and I've actually half-convinced myself of it to the point that I have participated in the whole microcosm that is the obsessive labeling and categorizing of all of nut-dom that is out there, in other words further helped convince my doctors of it.
I will agree that I am a traumatized little worm of a mess.