Last night, Tracey, Angela, and I all geeked out in a group Gmail chat so we could collectively exclaim over Frontline’s report on The Medicated Child. Frightening shit, dude. I know that I don’t live these people’s lives, but it really sounded like doctors were pushing MULTIPLE prescriptions of serious drugs for tiny children because they were acting like…children. Somehow, pharmaceutical companies seem to have convinced millions that tantrums in 2-year-olds and mood swings in 12-year-olds are bipolar disorder and that we need to start kids on the drugs as soon as possible.
And the footage that they have of the doctors speaking to patients was surreal. Even when they’re aware that they’re being filmed, they still act distant and uninterested. They don’t talk to the child, only the parent. And within 30 seconds new drugs were prescribed or dosages increased. I remarked at one point, “All of these assholes should be doing commercials for Hydroxycut.”
It didn’t do much for my general apocalyptic attitude.
To compound that, I was startled awake in the middle of the night to the sound of banshees. It was actually this freakish storm. The wind was screaming past our house and the rain sounded like someone was throwing buckets of pennies on our windows.
My only (drowsy) thought: “This better not be a tornado. I am way too tired for that shit right now.”
Of course, we don’t really get tornadoes in hilly Pittsburgh that often, but if anyone is going to sleep through a twister, I would put my money on me. One time I had a dream that I slept through the apocalypse and when I woke up (in my dream) I looked around at the destruction and thought, “Typical.”