A madness metal, impervious to harmful thought or deed...

Tuesday, January 31

Another day...

S'anyway I'm in the start-up phase of a major depression. Yeah-me! I hear you cheer. It's odd. I know (now) that I have clinical depression and I'm not just a mopey fuck who likes his old Smiths records way too much. I'm technically and medically fucked up in the head. Other people, in general, don't get this - in turn, I don't get to have that happy-go-lucky, chitty-chitty bang bang general optimisim about things. Somehow, I don't feel like I got the shitty end of the stick on that deal.

It's odd though, to know that what you feel and what you "go through" are not normal. It's akin, I guess, to finding out that everyone else only lives during daylight and has never seen (no pun intended) night. And to me, this is -normal-. This is just shit as it happens. Contemplating the alternative is almost alien, illogical, impossible. I can't imagine what it would be like to not have a serious funk every few months where you just sit in a chair (or couch or on the floor) and think/do nothing 24x7. Or minor versions of the same that incapacitiate you for minutes or maybe hours. This is normality as I know it. And I can't let anyone else know anything of this: it's a landscape too alien and yet too similar to comprehend. "Cathederal" comes to mind. It's as close as I can think of a metaphor.

Anyway, yes, whiney old me, rattling on about myself, whining, boo-hoo poor me. Break out the Mozza Long Players Mavis, I've got some serious moping to do... Ohhh, reel around the fountain, if I had fifteen minutes with you/I'd make a stew, it might be good, but probably not, especially if I used the beef stock, on accident much less pupose. And Porpoises have miserable fucking lives as well, think about that next time you are / queueing up for tickets to a Beck concert. You never get the good seats anyway, so what's the point? Choose drugs.

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