I know that Prozac, Zoloft, Paxil, and all the other SSRIs (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) are bullshit and I have known it for about 15 years.
Never mind how.
Anyway, it was recently “discovered” that Prozac doesn’t “work” for anybody. “Placebos work better than Prozac!!!” they kinda said. Depressed people were not being “helped” by this toxic and expensive drug, that is so over-prescribed, it was found to be a measurable element in the water supply in the UK, from so many people excreting it in their pee.
Why, they ask? How could so many people be convinced to spend billions of dollars on drugs that not only don’t work, but actually harm millions of people all over the world?
Not to fuck with the atheists or the Christians or whatever religious corporation you’re into or anything, but I’m going to write a little about religious stuff. And take it easy– I don’t give a shit about your soul and can’t even prove you have one.
Ready?
Okay. The First Noble Truth of the Buddhists, is that all life is suffering. The Second is that you are to do whatever you can to alleviate that suffering, or something like that (Obvs, I’m not Buddhist, but I used to tell shit like this to Names4things Jr all the time, and she’s only mildly disturbed.). But like those in the art market, I know what I like.
Okay, so all life is suffering. Let’s just accept that for the benefit of this shitty blog post, if nothing else. Imagine we are all surfing, or at least bobbing in the ocean. Some of us are catching waves, surfing, and some of us are getting water up our noses. Fuck, I hate that! And I love to swim! Anyway, some of us are stroking through the water like Olympic athletes (that would be moi), and some of you are drowning (that would be you). I believe all of these are really appropriate metaphors for how we can feel on any given day, or at any given moment, so it’s not personal. And I can really swim.
We are rarely concentrating on how others are doing in the water. It’s the ocean! Choppy water, kinda grey skies, I can’t hearrrr youuuu!!! And so under these conditions, if we are paying attention to each other, we can get caught up in each other’s shit catastrophically, quite easily. Say, I stop stroking, and try to save your lame ass, and you hit me in the nose because your arms are flailing, and I am knocked out, and end up drowning. But by my excellent swimming example, you finally have figured out how to actually swim yourself!
Well screw you, you thankless shit! Then I come back from the dead and fuck you up!
No, let’s go back to our superb paradigm, where we basically can’t or don’t give a shit for what others are doing. And along with the whole concept of being Number One, we must have this notion to survive in this ocean.
Well, Prozac won’t save you. Prozac isn’t a life jacket or an inner tube or even a rubber ducky. Prozac is just another pharmaceutical buggering you get for believing that your life should be easy. Because, remember? All life is suffering. Unless you’re lucky enough or smart enough not to be sentient; you will suffer, and that’s what I know for sure.
So next time someone tries to hook you on drugs, whether it’s the guy who cooked the meth or big pharma cooking the Prozac, or even the guy distilling the potatoes, mixing it with vermouth and presenting it to you in a vaguely titty-shaped glass with an olive; just take it easy. Try as hard as you can, and simultaneously give yourself a break. Sound easy? Well then you’re not trying hard enough.
Try not to hate, beginning with yourself– unless you deserve it, in which case I will post your lousy shit on my blog and the whole world will join you. Just kidding, no one reads this shit. But even when self-loathing is maybe justified, even more often, it is really intensely warranted and isn’t done at all. So why waste your time on your piddling self-hate? You– you’re probably, most likely, nothing compared to the champion motherfuckers of the world. Unless you’re really fucking scary, which I admit is possible, in which case I am speechless, and not heavily into redemption. No, really. I give it a little lip service, but I’m basically unforgiving.
But whatever you do, remember that if you can read these words, you’re not lying on the ground somewhere starving to death, or you’re not someone sold into slavery, or you’re not head to toe in a refugee camp: remember you’ve got it pretty fucking good, from a global perspective. Not fighting with 17 adults and 5 listless children over the last shriveled yam dug out of the parched molten earth? Well you’re good to fucking go, captain!
Try to cherish that. Pick a God and be grateful to Her for that shit. Or don’t! And then pick something, any fucking thing, and try to just be better. Stop hating people for nothing. That’s a good start, and really really helps. You don’t have to be the fashion police or the looks department, or any of that critical analysis you engage in that I call horse shit. Just do you. Then, stop picking fights with people weaker than you– OMG you’re already Mother friggin Theresa with your shit! Then and only then TRY just try to walk in someone else’s fugly thongs, and you’re already on the road to feeling a little better than shitty. Isweartogod this works.
Because, remember– we really aren’t in the ocean, you’re staring at a fucking computer screen. You can actually do something. You’re not even wet, unless I’m a much better writer than I thought. So do something. Not drugs- I mean you can do drugs, but you agreed to help alleviate someone’s suffering, remember? Jeez, do you have ADD or something? Or just some good pot? Sharesies?
Anyway, take your fucking wheel barrels of money, and don’t buy a Hummer. Don’t even buy a blow job. Give something to someone else, instead. Nothing that has anything to do with Russell Simmons, Dear God, but you get my drift, don’t you? Clean your old granny’s nasty feet. Wash your ass. Tell your little imaginary friends to go home. After that? The magic of these very intertubes allow you to give money to buy someone a goat, or a mosquito net, or be a big deal, and become a venture capitalist for someone who needs, I don’t know, a couple hundred bucks to save her life. It’s amazing, really.
But after you’ve done that, remember it and you, are just a drop in the ocean. And that ocean of suffering with sweet death as its only release? Uh, you cannot conquer it with fucking Prozac. SSRIs don’t work. The white man even admitted it, finally. Give it up, Griff!
Oh– and have a good day!
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