My doctor is a fuckwad. Right up there with my good-for-nothing-lawyer.

I beg him for pills. Justify them with endless nights spent staring at the walls and torturous days spent trying to decide if I was a hologram. I tell him that it's impacting my job, my sex life, even though both are basically shit and none of that is from the insomnia.

Most days, everything else is a hologram.

Life, as seen through a fun house mirror.

I was desperate. I sit in his shitty little office and my mouth waters for little white pills. Throat burns for pale, pastel blue. The blood-stained red of lipstick. 200 mg, 400 mg. Any dosage, any fucking color.

He tells me to get a grip.

"You should come back tomorrow night. There's a support group for insomniacs, they might be able to talk some sense into you." He hands me a pamphlet and leaves, the giant ass for brains with his squeaky orthopedic shoes and his cheap comb-over.

I throw the pamphlet in his trash can, but show up anyway.




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