I was brushing my teeth, and looking in the mirror, and thinking about how We’re All Winners, especially those guys who generally considered loveless, and jobless, and, in essence, lifeless, when I thought, Heck, now’s the time to write a post about depression. Because it’s one constant theme in my life are that the people who don’t understand the deep, dark holes of painful, circular logic (think of the razor ball in Phantasm drilling into your brain combined with final thoughts of failure and self-inflicted torture) is that they tend to say, So why don’t you start writing about your depression?
Why? I rhetorically ask back and give them my answer: Because it sure sounds like a shit load of fun listening to somebody talk about how much he hates his life.
Depression is knowing my dog is going to die.
Depression is looking at my mother’s last photograph with me and it was taken by the man who murdered her.
Depression is getting fat and bald and still eating ice cream on the couch as the cute, troubled red head solves a murder mystery.
Depression isn’t fear. Fear is based on the unknown. Depression is based on what is happening right now combined with a large helping of what had happened in the past. Fear is being afraid to walk in the kitchen in the middle of the night because of the large, Texas sized cockroaches that hang out by the sink scraping food off of dirty dishes, or scurrying across a cupboard door, or in and around the bowl of dog food. That’s fear, and it’s for pussies. This is depression, and those who really get depressed aren’t worried about a fear. We already know that life, which is based on the current and past, fucking sucks. That it’s going to blow chunks and suck major league donkey dicks whether I’ve got 10 inch roaches or not.
Whoo fucking ass de-fucking-pression.
Catch the fever.