I met with a real, honest-to-goodness psychiatrist the other day. We spoke for about an hour. I tried to make a good impression despite my appearance. The shaved head and face look has gone by the wayside as I further shun societal norms. I kind of look like Wolverine right now. I even trimmed the sideburns for that Canadian Berserker look.

At the end of our session, I was prescribed a medication for ADD, a medication for depression, and a medication to help me sleep.

I talked her out of the sleep medication. I had told her about my vivid dreams, my sleep-flailing, my occasional shouting, and how sometimes, just sometimes, when I wake up the dream images linger into my waking sight, like old decals on a dirty window.

But I like my dreams. I love my active nightlife, so to speak, and I find dreaming to be an ideal time to mull over likely and unlikely scenarios. My dreams are strange, sure, but usually in them I am me. I walk around, crack-wise, quip, and argue. Just like real life, except it may involve a dinosaur or giant Goomba from Mario Brothers 3 or a girl I haven't seen in a very long time.

Don't mess with my dreams, lady. You don't want to make them angry.

So we'll see. I hope Tom Cruise isn't right about how this may lead to harder drugs. I can easily picture myself feeling better, getting my life together, working hard at a good job, making decent money, and then using that money to buy heroin and injecting it directly into my eyes.

I can hardly wait.