Expat@Large

The Pharmacologia Of Melancholy

Posted in Uncategorized by expatatlarge on May 14, 2009

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.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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 …)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(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.

~~~~~~~~~~~

But still it falls.

~~~~~~~~~~~

E@L

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11 Responses

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  1. rockstar69 said, on May 15, 2009 at 7:54 am

    Sorry to hear the feets is still being a bitch.

    I could’ve told ya that anti-depressants don’t make you “happy”. Best they do is stop you from being fuckin’ miserable. Happy is a real long step from where the drugs take you.

    🙂

  2. scott said, on May 15, 2009 at 8:48 am

    The tales of Bruce remind me of a recent Buck’s night in Melbourne. I was not too interested in the women as I was just there to try to talk my mate into reconsidering his pending marriage, and at least consider an Asian girl instead.

    I chose the best looking woman in the place, a tall Japanese girl for his private dance. She was better than he will ever see in the marital bedroom (poor bugga).

    When I went find her after I tracked him down in the venue there was a guy staring at her, tongue out, and he started to act like a jealous and potentially aggressive boyfriend when I spoke to her to negotiate a deal. So I asked him to relax, he could also see her totally naked and play with her breasts. All he had to do was give her money, as I had…

    Geeze, why do boys get so attached to nothing? They say women are hopeless romantics, but I see males are equally stupid!

  3. Hunter-Gatherer said, on May 15, 2009 at 11:00 am

    I’ve read some of your previous extracts from Bruce’s writing. How old was Bruce when he died?

  4. expat@large said, on May 15, 2009 at 11:09 am

    Rocky: with the Cymbalta, I was pretty cool, moodwise, but of course I wasn’t depressed in the first place!

    Scott: I think women (of any race) can be very pragmatic, they play our emotional/physical needs like a flesh-flute, at least they do here at Lolitas BJ bar, and for only 750Bht!

    H-G: um, let me think about that. How old do you picture him? Think Flastaff to my young Harry.

  5. rockstar69 said, on May 15, 2009 at 2:10 pm

    Mmmm. I reckon Bruce was about 52 when he died.. But this time next year I reckon he would’ve been 53.. and so on :-))

  6. expat@large said, on May 15, 2009 at 4:02 pm

    Rockstar: I reckon you can fuck off ya mad c*nt!

    Bruce is/was obviously a MUCH older and wiser/simpler man.

  7. dh said, on May 15, 2009 at 4:51 pm

    Bruce strikes me as a bit jaded to be honest. I think me and him would find lots to bitch about.

  8. expat@large said, on May 15, 2009 at 6:14 pm

    Dick: you never struck me as the jaded typ***cough-cough**** type. Sorry a severe coughing fit struck me there,… there’s no explaining it!

    I think its lucky that Bruce (or E@L) didn’t read the elder Tolstoy until his (their) latter years – their world would have been doomed to asexual childlessness. Men and women: they just don’t get along. People neither. We can be amusing and entertainging and whatever as the bejesus, but when it all boils down, it’s pathetic how we kid ourselves aboutbthe whole fucking thing (or so Bruce would tell me in his failing days.)

  9. rockstar69 said, on May 16, 2009 at 4:20 am

    Fucking off as requested!!

  10. expat@large said, on May 16, 2009 at 8:52 am

    Rocky: that’s a record! The first time YOU’VE ever done what you’ve been told!

  11. Hunter-Gatherer said, on May 19, 2009 at 3:45 pm

    My guess would be about 55 in earth years – not sure what that translates to in Thailand.


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