Tonight I took advantage of my pharmacy's offer of $10 in store credit for every 5 prescriptions filled. (The insurance companies limit the amount of times you can refill potentially addictive pharmaceuticals, so no one start planning to get high AND get a lot of rebate cash.) Before I got diagnosed with clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder, it would've taken me at least half a year to get my free money. Now, with two extra prescriptions a month, I'm raking it in, baby!
The last time I had pictures developed, which I was going to do anyway. Boring. Tonight I went and bought myself some makeup (L'Oreal powder blush in Precious Peach, to be exact.) I'm looking forward to the next time, when I plan to treat myself to a new lip gloss or something equally me-centric. I may be Crazy, but I can still look pretty. Right?
Hey, never let it be said that there are no perks to belonging to the Mentally Ill Club.*
*I feel compelled to add, being an earnest sort loath to offend anyone, that I don't mean to offend anyone. I'm laughing at myself, actually, because I still feel sort of odd that I need medication. I don't feel odd taking it, because basically my choices are: a) take it and feel normal, even great; or b) [want to] die. [Edited to tone down the melodrama. But seriously, it still sucked.] You don't have to tell me that depression is a serious thing. But all the more reason to joke about it, I say--from this side of the bridge that modern medicine built for me. And soon I will write a serious post about my "illness" (that seems so weird to say that).
Hey, the postcript was almost as long as the post.