I did not realize until I was on the train how much of a fucking slob I look like today. I don’t need to look beautiful for anyone but man, I got the wrong shirt and pants this time. I clean up well when I have to, and for the most part I don’t concern myself with sartorial appointments. But the ink stain and the unexplained liquid stains that will not fade and the loosening threads of this cheap pink shirt are the stuff of a person no playwright would dare document. I am not dirty or stinky but I am  poorly shaven with a flick of a goatee that is not supposed to be there.

Also deciding if I should take some pills today. THis would be preemptive since I thought I might have woken up with some shakes. They are gone now but they do that, they go away and come back. I’ll go days and weeks without them.  A goal of this dose would be not so much to stave off the shakes but to prepare myself for sobriety. 

OK I did it. Took the pills. These are the last dosages prescribed by the now-loathed previous PCP, my disdain for that person only increasing as I let it sink in how I let him push me around. I could go as far as writing a bad Yelp review but I’m not that kind of asshole. I remember seeing borderline negative reviews of that guy, negative on account of the same things I had issues with: his insistence on the tapping method and other easter juju for which I simply had no patience. I can accept that this is a bias of mine, a charater flaw even lof closed mindedness. Let that be what it is. Let me suffer in the consequences of my character flaws. 

But what consequence? The pills work and I’m not even close to any kind of addiction. If anything I could have taken them far more frequently over these years.

Someone told me every PCPa gets a mailing every month of all the controlled substances they have prescribed, to whom, and all the details. Some PCPs keep that list as spare as possible. Others don’t care. Why the difference?