sporadic thought bubbles

Now here’s a non-rhetorical question.

Ever feel so brain-numbingly bored that you feel the urge to self-destruct?

I’ve been wondering about this lately, if it’s just me, or if it happens to other, more normal people out there. Have you ever stopped in your shoes, as you’re walking down your lovely, yellow-brick, rose-strewn path, and heard this undrownable ringing in your ears? An irritating, high-pitched screaming coming from the depths of your otherwise placid, bordering on frigid, soul?

And it comes around when you’re supposed to be happy, when you’re supposed to be safely ensconced in a life that many envy, in the arms of a dream that you thought you’ve always wanted. For all its publicity, sometimes love and happiness aren’t all that they’re cracked up to be. And the easiest way out is to set yourself aflame.

Sometimes, the temptation to sabotage ourselves is just too much to resist.

I am unwritten, can’t read my mind, I’m undefined
I’m just beginning, the pen’s in my hand, ending unplanned

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you 
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open 
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten.

After 3 months of complete bumhood, during which i gladly let my brain dissolve to mush, i recently decided to (drumroll please)… get a job. Yes, i’ve gone and done it, i’ve actually dispensed advice and medications in exchange for money. Oh, the horror. Just when i thought i knew what i wanted to do with my life, which would be to depend on my parents for another ten years, then go straight into semi-retirement by finding a Brazilian supermodel with a trust fund. Preferably a male supermodel.

So anyway, after i went off the deep end and accepted these job offers (like i’m sooo in demand), i realized what this meant. Responsibility. Accountability. Consequences of my actions. Shi-ite.

I guess i’m supposed to grow up now, guess i’m supposed to stop whining like a big baby when i get hungry, or gushing to my friends about the latest brain-dead show that i watched. It’s kind of hard to be a doctor when you feel twelve years old inside. It gets even harder when your patients constantly ask how old you are, and you have to respond, with utter confidence, with a number that will satisfy them…a number that may be more than your actual age, and perhaps twice the number that comes to mind when you think of maturity, or credibility, or any other grown-up trait that you’re supposed to have acquired. It’s almost like playing pretend but with a bit more guilt. The shadows of uncertainty plague me till i fall into blissful sleep…and then i wake up the next day, forced to be less of the shallow, selfish bi-atch that i am in real life, and more of the caring, competent physician that i know i also am, if i dig deep, waaaaay deeeeep…

It’s never a good idea to look vulnerable, when you’re a doctor. Then again, it’s probably not the best thing to be a doctor, when you’re twelve years old. Not even Doogie could do that.