Soundtrack to Mary

After the black cloud of hell that is known as the holidays in my family, I came down with the “cruise ship flu,” a name which doesn’t begin to paint this evil in the proper light. Never in my adult life have I been this sick. As god is my witness, I shan’t be kneeling in front of the toilet again, lest I accidentally drop Richard Ashcroft’s 14-carat engagement ring in, and even then.

Cry for help? Probably. It’s the first time in 10 years I’ve looked for a job that doesn’t involve kissing some coke-whore program director’s payola-padded, modern-rock white ass. Pride? You betcha. Mail-order plans for kitchen meth lab looking good? Check. Meds? Plenty. Side effects? Does having evening chats with the Care Bears and losing all interest in food, sex, and the outside world qualify as a side effect?

The yardstick I use to gauge my depression has always been what I refer to as the “summer of the penny.” Several years ago, I noticed one red cent laying on the floor in my apartment and each day I saw it, I told myself I should pick it up. Three months later, it was still there, only now it rested gently on a fluffy bed of cat hair. That was as bad as it got.

Well, there WAS the evening I spent on the phone with a nurse from Medformation. One night, after I had dropped a birth control pill under my desk, I was on hands and knees searching. I popped the first small white object I saw into my mouth. Then I sinkingly remembered that for the last week I’d been administering antibiotics to my sick cat, which he would promptly spit out. Stupid human. Was I being paranoid, or did I really have an urge to lie in the clothes basket and paddle a twist-tie around the floor for 45 minutes? God knows, I DO mean to make light of depression, but I will take a hostage if I hear another smug moron say, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Wrong, Larry. I think what doesn’t kill you now sloooowly eats away at you, emotionally crippling you, and even more disturbing, makes the Style Network seem important.


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