Sometimes I worry that the voices in my head are more intesting than me, and that if I take all my meds I’ll be left alone with the one boring me who says, “Put some shoes one” and “Where are your pants?” and “You know you’re not allowed on the roof with that machete.” These are real fears I have. Then I realize that if I’m having these sorts of fears it’s a pretty good indication that I’m still fucked up in a mildly-dangerous-but-not-entirely-dull sort of way. And that’s a good thing.
I think.