The Pharmacologia Of Melancholy

Without my painkillers I am one grumpy toe-fucker.

With my painkillers I am another grumpy, if somewhat dull-witted, tired all the time, toe-fucker: a different person. Not necessary a better man either.

Well, actually it depends upon which painkillers we are talking about. The Cymbalta, which as an anti-depressant, was supposed to make me happy as a (pleasant) side-effect, didn't, as I wasn't on it long enough this time for that effect to kick in. The Oxycontin doped me seriously stupid, like I was smoking opium (without the enhanced social benefits) but it didn't come anywhere near stopping any pain, so I stopped it too. Sigh.

Now I am double dosing on Lyrica and getting weird dreams... and sore feet still. The Tramadol is pretty pathetic, but I need it too. Without it AND the Lyrica the pain is much more electric. So I take either Panadol or Ibuprofen now during the course of the day to reduce the ball-of-the-foot ache (which is seperate from the nerve pain). Ever the socialist, I alternate the latter two in order to spread the damage across my organ systems more equitably.

Then there is the absence of libido, which came on with the Cymbalta once I started on it again in Boracay, and that seems to have to been enhanced, both in effect and duration with the Oxycontin. It has yet to "lift", even after being off both medications several weeks now.

Surprisingly, this has had little negative effect on my mood. I feel a more rational creature if anything. I spend less time hunting up porn. I can joke with bar-girls, I don't get flustered, nothing is at stake.

Maybe I should spend more time writing. (Or reading. I've gone and bought up big on mathematical books for some reason. Books on the Infinite, and on Descartes. As well as some Fantasy stuff, inspired by my gambling buddy, Mercer Machine, who is blogging again every so often, thankfully, and not just as Gar The Merciless and his hilarious handbook for Evil Overlords.)

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The problem remains: my feet hurt and that single fact STILL is giving me the metaphorical, metaphysical, philosophical, melanchological shits.

"I can't even get comfortable." (Prince Blackadder, on the pyre of his auto-da-fe.)

I've spend $600 on drugs here in BKK tonight, but as there are no generics for Lyrica I am still pfilling pfucking Pfizer's coffers. This makes me grumpy as well, as that is only 2 months worth. My BP medication is much cheaper fortunately...

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It just so happens that when my late mentor in all things Falstaffian, Hale-Sire Well-Met Mr Bruce, was taken over by his final courses of therapies, things were fading away for him as well. His legendary appetites were absent, thanks to his medications and treatments. Poor old sod. I recollect that there was a brief thing he wrote during one of his more misanthropic stages. I'll see if I can find it on that disk he bequeathed to me...

(cue sounds of clicking and whirring as of someone opening a disk-drive ...)

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(From: The Chronicles Of Bruce)


I step out from a rain burst and into a popular bar on Soi 4, to let the precipitation wear itself out, as it soon will do, wearily.

My medications have knocked me flat. I can’t drink. I can’t fuck. I have no desire to eat ever again after an atrocious spaghetti bolognaise a friend recommended.

There is someone at each table, but they are girlie-tables, these are girls looking for men tonight, to cadge drinks from. I am supposed to chat in pigeon-Thai with some of these girls for the evening, get myself pissed, buy the girls lots of drinks, maybe pay the bar-fine and take one of them home and attempt to have several episodes of sex with her. But I have zero libido. Zero. I haven’t had an erection in months.

The table I allow myself to be led towards has girls of different morphologies on two of the stools. I am offered a free stool, which I accept. I order a Coke Light, place my blue bag of cheap drugs and pirate DVDs on the barrel-top table. The girls look at me. Coke? I tell them I am gay. They introduce themselves. Nem, from Isaan. Noo, from Krung Thep (Bang Kok)

So, I look at these girls. Really look at them. Why would, in normal circumstances, I choose one girl over the other, I ask myself.

What code of DNA has so altered the way the framework of their bones has been constructed and wrapped the supported connective tissues around it to make Nem preferable to me over Noo, or vice versa? Why would the distinguishing structural distributions of meat, fat and hair make me want to deposit my drug-depleted sperm in this one's vaginal mucosal folds and not that one's?

For the miserable, nearly-ended life of me, I can't see it. And I know that should my desires have been functioning, even stupider consequences would ensue. Not only would I prefer one over the other, I would gain the potential to grow possessive of my selection! I could become jealous!

It can't be beauty, for none of them are classically attractive. No Golden Mean in those far too wide apart eyes, those much too high cheek-bones, that wider than natural mouth.

I sip my Coke Light and continue to joke about being gay to explain my lack of interest. They seem to know of course that I am kidding them, but the conversation is by its nature, limited. Language is of little use. Gesture. Facial expression. Body position. These are the words.

I cover my glass. "I no truss you. Put ya-ba in coke, rape me!" Nem smiles, pulls a face that reveals her small teeth. Nem's mouth is smaller but her lips are very thick, with a bee-stung sensuality. Noo's teeth, in contrast are too numerous and large for her already large mouth. Noo has breasts. Nem has none. I don’t care. Somebody might find this interesting.

A retrograde wave of bolgnaise sauce builds in my stomach. Nausea, my drugs, when will it end? The meal threatens to rise up and this of course interrupts the downward spiral of my thought process. No more pessimistic philosophizing tonight.

I hold up my hand to plead for forgiveness. I call for my bill, tip the disappointed girls a disappointing 20Bht and leave for my hotel.

The rain has ceased.

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But still it falls.

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E@L