After the crash

Judging from the phone calls I've had recently, I was the only one who didn't know it was coming, but, yeah, my dose was too high. It's still too high, but we're working on it. In the meantime, I'm just trying desperately to get more than three hours of sleep per night, cut down on my staring-at-the-walls time, and keep quarantined from K, with whom my relationship has assumed (metaphorical) Itchy-and-Scratchy dimensions over the past few days. Overthyroiding, it turns out, makes me...what's the technical term? Megasupermondobitchy.

No, seriously, I've read how recovering heroin users feel as though their defenses are absent, leading to excruciatingly raw and unmediated contact with the world (the Mumbai pulp read "Shantaram," if you must know, shortly after I arrived. I was sick. For the entire 900 pages. More so after I finished it). I am experiencing raw and unmediated contact with the world of irritability. I don't think there's anything that doesn't immediately and profoundly piss me off. Even more than usual, I mean.