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dung depressor
06/21/2007 = 02:54 PM

Ah, depression.

I am not what one would call clinically depressed. Life genuinely is not on a positive upswing at the moment.

I'm reacting to my environment, not causing it.

Just sort of waiting for it to get better so I can cheer up properly.

But it is sort of depressing to realize that one can no longer manage earsy kneesy nosey for long, not because one has lost one's coordination, but because one has lost one's dexterity.

If your joints pop whilst doing earsy kneesy nosey, that's fucking depressing, man.

"Losing my eyesight was more depressing than getting cancer was. I figured I could die of cancer and be perfectly happy as long as I could read."
— The Mom

She doesn't always have to make sense.

Anyway, she's got new eyedrops and she's not only not going blind, her eyesight's improved about a millionfold.

She's cute, is what she is, all right, and she gives me hope that I can someday be cute again.

I think I'd like to take this time to make a completely random deal with John Travolta.

If he promises not to give me a hard time about taking antidepressants, which wouldn't affect him even if

1. I was taking any, which I'm not;
2. I was standing right next to him, which I'm not

I promise I won't give him a hard time about smoking cigarettes, which would affect me because

1. he does smoke, at least enough that you never see him coughing when he inhales on camera;
2. if I were standing right next to him, I'd have to breathe his secondhand smoke.

Why antidepressants are bad but nicotine isn't is a case for someone other than myself to argue, as I don't know enough about his religion to comment about it.

I know enough about my own religion (Golfwidowism, the Religion of One Person) that letting other people be free to do as they please and not preaching at them is the way I, personally, prefer to roll.

Deal?

(Anyway, propers to Mr. Travolta for agreeing with Tom Cruise without accusing anyone in the process.)

I am not so creative lately. I have no inspiration to podcast; to draw; to etch glass.

I write every day, but most of it is an empiric buttload of crap, which is exactly the same measurement as a metric buttload, but reserved for those of us stubborn Americans who refuse to convert over.

So I was kind of bleh about not being any good at anything really, other than proofreading, finding other people's errors, fixing them, and having the people send the piece back to me, insisting that they want those incorrect apostrophes put back in and all those correct commas taken out.

Mr. O, who is retiring this year (and boy, do I feel old) would understand how frustrated I am by people not appreciating my Mad Writing Skills™.

Which made this conversation kind of awesome:

My Friend Who Isn't But Is Sort Of: T (his sister) had her baby yesterday.
Me: What?
MFWIBISO: Yeah, she had a little girl. I'm an uncle for the first time.
Me: What? T had a baby?
MFWIBISO: Yeah, baby girl. I'm an uncle.
Me: Dude, I didn't even know she was pregnant. Why didn't you tell me she was pregnant?
MFWIBISO: I thought you knew. I'm sorry.
Me: Oh, that sucks, man. You should've told me. I mean, what if I'm the father?

I'm sorry; it was the funniest line I came up with all week.

Tags: depression

drinking: ice water
listening to: Jane's Addiction, Jane Says
screw this uncheerfulness: i'm putting on some monty python