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My shaver! I've got my shaver back. Oh, and Whitney's here, too. It's a huge relief not to be alone again... we missed each other a lot during the unexpected week apart, and she apparently thinks I went insane, because she says that I'm now talking to myself more than I used to.
I had the appointment at the doctor on Friday, though, and she recommended that I make an appointment with an anxiety specialist at Behavioral Health - a euphemism that makes it sound a lot worse than the normal term for this department, as if there's always a queue at reception of people in hockey masks and carrying chainsaws and lawnmowers. I have also been given a supply of what Whitney has termed "chill pills" - lorazepam, for when anxiety gets the better of me or I have occasion to use a sniper rifle.
We celebrated our reunion yesterday by going out to see the editorial director at the publisher Whitney works for in a community theatre production, dressed as a prostitute, singing about devouring men for lunch and eventually being killed, as if my life hadn't been strange enough recently. It was a musical adaptation of Jekyll and Hyde, a story in which much like Superman, people can't tell that two people are one and the same because they have slightly different hair. The actor playing Jekyll seemed just quietly dangerous at first, but after the transformation he suddenly turned into Alice Cooper, clearly absolutely loving cackling madly and screaming at the top of his lungs, and murdering most of the rest of the cast by poking them a bit with a stick as if they were all made of plasticine. It eventually culminated in a confrontation scene, which was the most schizophrenic performance I have ever witnessed, with him mussing up one side of his hair and turning around from side to side having a sung argument with himself. The similarity to watching a performance by Eddie Izzard was enough to make it a real struggle not to laugh inappropriately.
I had the appointment at the doctor on Friday, though, and she recommended that I make an appointment with an anxiety specialist at Behavioral Health - a euphemism that makes it sound a lot worse than the normal term for this department, as if there's always a queue at reception of people in hockey masks and carrying chainsaws and lawnmowers. I have also been given a supply of what Whitney has termed "chill pills" - lorazepam, for when anxiety gets the better of me or I have occasion to use a sniper rifle.
We celebrated our reunion yesterday by going out to see the editorial director at the publisher Whitney works for in a community theatre production, dressed as a prostitute, singing about devouring men for lunch and eventually being killed, as if my life hadn't been strange enough recently. It was a musical adaptation of Jekyll and Hyde, a story in which much like Superman, people can't tell that two people are one and the same because they have slightly different hair. The actor playing Jekyll seemed just quietly dangerous at first, but after the transformation he suddenly turned into Alice Cooper, clearly absolutely loving cackling madly and screaming at the top of his lungs, and murdering most of the rest of the cast by poking them a bit with a stick as if they were all made of plasticine. It eventually culminated in a confrontation scene, which was the most schizophrenic performance I have ever witnessed, with him mussing up one side of his hair and turning around from side to side having a sung argument with himself. The similarity to watching a performance by Eddie Izzard was enough to make it a real struggle not to laugh inappropriately.
