Getting Diagnosed

...And explaining it is half the problem.

Look, with the flip-flopper rapid cycling, it's hard to deny the manic tenacity once meds defogged the pursuing mirror, and no way the paranoia has red hair and a job title. The only rival being the embarrassing drool on this' first draft after the Seroquel. So, I must ask, (doctors, universe, whatever) what the shit is the RAADS meant to aid in my survival? Permanent script flipper to still stutter back into silence at the register-- 'Would you like to try our rewards program?' Huh, where? Never met her. Oh, it gets better. Got a name to google? Yet life proves no change from the shrinking quack's note pads and oh, yeah, Google searches! Fake It, right? *Sigh* It's better than song lyrics-- Seether had me medically secure by eleventh grade, but can't call them cheaters. What the fuck is this? Better Help?! What a fix, rather trust that rollercoaster with seven twists. Speaking of, death has served its purpose in a cynically beautiful sunrise manner--OOPS! I claimed death is an answer. Lordy, mental health's Kryptonite that speaks to beyond the endless night--Not an issue. All those tissues, and I'd better start researching from the first level of its continuum. Only to be given a lexicon of trivial binoculars on the cerebral mysticisms. On my shit, and still a pit of infinite conversational wit befuddlement, split between reality and the version of it that extends beyond all color spectrums. 'Calms is not an enemy.' Then why is it never enough to bond with the socialites of anecdotes', might, without reckless abandonment of--fuck this, that excuse just called! Yeah, that overstimulating thing you suggested finished the last of my reserves, and (truth alert) while I enjoyed my night with you, something pulled partially from a sitcom (truth over) has thrown me off, and if I don't flee, the bus from Speed won't have the gas the to clear the bridge. Not a mix-up, just a page of wordy links for which the reigning conspiracies sink twelve and a half miles below the flat earth. Okay, fine. I've heard worse. But the thin veil of lunacy coating from this sketch book of mine and what's typed, because I'm forever curious of what happens when speaking to the ether goes awry, and the quills keep burning through the timbers--at least it rests the humiliated vocal cords for something that combats the undefeatable. The low-hanging unmeasurable, the missing pieces that are more definable than any humans it inhabitants.