It’s a very simple recipe. Combine:
1 hotel room in a grand, atmospheric hotel,
1 TV with cable
1 hot lava massage
3 fancy meals
1 accommodating shuttle driver
1 deserted, charming town at the end of the world
1 “Seal hike” through the woods for an hour to a clearing from which you could see actual seals lazing around like paunchy middle-aged men on the rocks, plus an hour trek back
1 chess game
1 sex partner
0 family members
1 bottle of Klonopin.
Let sit, and serve.
This was all as necessary and as it was restorative, since I hadn’t been feeling like myself since that small but vital part of my brain broke on Election Night. The new apple of my eye, Dr. Russian, first prescribed me a medicine that, in the long run, will have me running marathons and presidential campaigns simultaneously, but in the short run left me under house arrest. Like Madoff! Perhaps the nausea and constant panic I was experiencing were actually *his* and he spent some of his $50 billion transferring them to me. Since he doesn’t know me personally, I can only imagine he chose me because he figured the Jews hadn’t yet suffered enough.
Regardless, after one really bad day where I made it into work only to collapse and have to be taken home in a cab by coworkers, Dr. Russian, with an acknowledgment that I “seem to be very sensitive to medication,” cut my dosage and later prescribed an ameliorative second pill to be taken with the first. Glory of glories, hosannah, praise the flying spaghetti monster — I felt new again. And by “new,” I only mean “normal.” Well enough to enjoy the misty, desolate splendors of off-season Long Island, well enough to go to bed later than 9:00, and well enough to be back at work today.
Yeehaw! Now onto New Years, and the new year, in which hopefully I will again and consistently be the master of my own brain.