Unheroic Interlude 2

 (First see Unheroic Interlude 1)

Did I introduce myself? No, I started

my saga in media res--

so, here's how I got myself 

in my current mess, I guess.

If I could, I would give you my name

but I left it in another life

in my other pants, to my shame,

in a moment of strife.

I was raised in the shadow of Olympus

a cast-off twig of the family tree--

no titan, no goddess, just a mutt,

if you need any description of me.

I've roasted men with the maenads

and sung karaoke with the sirens,

drinking with them until we were legless,

and rolled them home at low tide.

It was not a life of ease, but easy

resolutely dissolute and breezy.

a shiftless shapeshifter born of a dryad

and a Werewolf King--a hybrid

ready to be anything,

and managing to be the least,

fruitless branches, untamed beast.

I plied myself with in preoccupation

hobbies, work and dissipation

until I found myself in a world of doubt:

washed, wrung, chopped and all burned out.

Too many irons in the fire to handle;

not enough wick in any part of my candle.

Clearly an intervention was needed

and my infernal internist interceded.

With a sword for a scalpel and a wand for most cures,

she seldom minces words--nor reassures.

My centaur doctor considered my case

with a look of disturbance on her stern face.

She consulted her sonar stethoscope

and shook her head with little hope.

And at length the "meta" physician diagnoses

(Listen close to what the witch proposes!)

"It seems your towel is nearly thrown in.

You haven't the guts for serotonin

and your reaction to dopamine

in nothing short of pure obscene.

It's possible, though, that oxytocin

could get your malingering ass in motion."

That's right. Love potion number zero.

Am I a damsel in distress that needs a hero?

"Heh," she scoffed, "with the right incentive,

you'll save yourself--you'll get inventive!"

Well, she knew my number and she's good at math,

and that's what put me on this path--

she prescribed a man as medication,

my cure a course of infatuation.

An adrenaline syringe to a faltering heart,

the medical administration of Cupid's dart.