I gingerly touch the small skin-tone button at the base of the skull. They said to wait four days for the circuitry to fully implant itself into my nervous system. What do they know? They’re only trained professionals.

I can’t afford to wait that long.
I take a deep breath, and push the button in as deep as it will go. A soothing feminized computer voice asks me, “Which one?”. It’s like someone’s talking to me inside my skull, reverberating around, yet without an echo.

“Schizophrenia with a dash of bipolar.”
“Confirmed. Enjoy.”
I close my eyes in anticipation.

A cacophony of light dances around my eyes, and I can feel the chemicals releasing from the medicinal packet implanted in my medula oblangata.

I want to scream, but I refuse to, I want to lash out but I can’t, and suddenly my perception begins to change. Hate is love, love is hate.

I open my eyes, pick up the brush, and begin to paint. My eyes dart to the calendar, where a big red circle is drawn on tomorrow’s date, with the words “PORTFOLIO DUE”.