It had now been six days. Six days of side effects, six days of suffering, six days of symptoms ranging from sharting to thoughts of suicide.
Last night, for no particular reason, I decided to not to take my Klonopin. Let’s backtrack: I’ve been on this drug for about three years straight now.
It’s a very specific kind of modern crisis, feeling stuck but not lost or feeling free but with no direction.
Most of my life-changing moments of clarity come to me around three in the morning after a hefty dose of crying and a couple Klonopin.
The first night I arrive absolutely terrified. They tell me I can smoke a cigarette in the outdoor cage. I see faces cloaked in darkness, intermittently lit by fireworks. It’s the fourth of July.
Have healthy amounts of sex. Treat it like it’s a vitamin. Have you taken yours today? It’s essential that you feel desired and connected to another person. Have sex with someone on a Tuesday and watch it tide you over for the next few weeks.
When we’re done finishing off our Klonopin rigatoni dish (imported from Italy and a pharmacy) we’re going to play a game called, “Obsessed With Being Depressed.” The rules go like this: Everyone goes around and talks about how sad they are and then people will try to one up their depression with an even sadder story.
There are more women than men in New York City, after all, and this can create an unfair imbalance for guys. “Can I live, skanks?” you yourself have probably shouted, probably on more than one occasion, brushing them off like blowsy flies in heat.