It's hours since I took the last couple, but still my eyes are moony, pupils dilated like an anime character. Anime is on my brain - or should be in any case. But each time I come back to my desk from gazing at my kuwaii reflection in the bathroom mirror I can't get my thoughts to sing in tune. I'm writing a treatment for a series of Young Adult novels, and one of the categories on the form is What Is It Not Like? This, to me, seems a question of infinite possibilities. It is not like Anna Karenina. It is not like Sweet Valley High. It is not like Lego, or cauliflower, or irony.
I give up on producing and decide to try being an idle consumer instead. If my head was cloudy before, it's now a whirl of candyfloss and it is only with effort that I can relate one scene of the Dollhouse to the next. I'm not sure whether the problem is mine or Joss Whedon's.
But despite the disorientation, the fuzzy-mindedness, the vague discomfort of being tripped-out on over-the-counter medication I still reach for the poor man's NyQuil before going to bed. Anything that can string me out this much, must be making me better, I reason, woozily, trying to push aside the suspicion that what I am doing is akin to amputating my foot to cure a fungal infection. Surely I should just shut up, dose up, and put my trust in the American pharmaceuticals?
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