  It was a fairly sucky halloween. It was sucky in that I did not have a costume, nor did i venture out and view adult types with costumes on. I could have ventured out, costumeless, but I lacked the necessary drive to do so. We had no pumpkin, and treated were given to us by our friendly neighbourhood minako. The angry man, Stash, kurt, myself, and minako watched The Hunted, and part of a fairly tedious kung fu movie. Angry man, stash and kurt made it through the entire two hundred minutes of kung fu madness. People popped in and out of the angry man's apartment - it was nice to be marginally social, but all in all, i give this halloween a rating of C-.
The kittens, referred to as The Poopsmiths 1 Through 4, are doing marginally better in their fecal endeavors. One made a trip to the vet, as her running poopyness was more regular than the intermittant squits of her sisters. The vet shaved off her bum fur, and she's been pretty bashful lately as a result. But, no longer does she trail a festering glob of her own waste lodged in those particular hairs, which is lucky for all of us.
The vet's diagnosis was that the kitten(s) were experiencing such distress due to the fact that that they are malnourished, and have nothing left to fight off anything bad in their systems. This is particularily evident of the poopsmith the doctor examined. She is the smallest, and not only can one feel her bones, but count them with accuracy. They are all about the size of 4-5 week old kittens, but the vet assured us their actual age was closer to nine weeks.
They haven't had enough food to grow. However, that's what we're here for. I've been off prozac since the 25th. Not particularily intentional this time; we ran out of funds, and i decided now would be as good a time as any to figure out where i was at brain wise without the benefit of pharmacuticals. The paranoia i can now safely attribute to the prozac. Not a bit of the jitters, no feeling of someone sneaking up on me, and no false starts at standard noises. I can even handle the squeal of tires of moronic motorists without losing my marbles. However, my sleep schedule is even more erratic, i have a monstrous amount of overwhelming grief, even more fatigue, and the thought of crossing the street with the moronic motorists and their squealing tires has more than a passing appeal.
My thoughts keep curling back to where I have secreted a piece of glass for mutilation purposes. I make frequent checks of how many pills are about the apartment, and what type. I don't think I'm in any immediate danger to myself, been on this train of thought enough times to know when to brace for the turns.
I'm throughly, wholeheartedly sick of this shit. At this point it really seems the only choice I have left is the orge's, so, in effect, no choice at all. Paranoia, general brain fuckwittage, or overwhelming grief and general brain fuckwittage. It has occured to me that i readily agree to doctor's tests and probings because i want there to be something else wrong with me, something more social acceptable, quantifiable, and hopefully treatable. Maybe I just want some fucking variety. I guess when it comes right down to it, i have some serious acceptance problems when it comes to this illness. If i had cancer, i wouldn't have people perpetually asking me what was wrong. If i had diabetes, no one would tell me to snap out of it. If i had, well, hell, just about anything else besides a mental illness, folks wouldn't say that I wasn't exactly 'lazy', just unmotivated. It's completely idiotic. There are parts of my consciousness that almost want that nice illness that everyone knows about. The other parts yell at these parts to stop being so bloody crazy. Those opposing bits duke it out, and I lapse into unconsciousness. My brain is trying to eat me. 
