Wait a second…
How am *I* dying alone while this dipshit walrus-lookin’ Hoarder with an old-school Nokia clipped to his belt is not only married but also has a sidepiece?
Motherfucker got ladies lined UP for that mustache ride, damn.
Yessir. “Kindness” is *absolutely* the primary take-home message in your dating profile. 
OK, listen…
Suicide is bad, please don’t do it, SOMEONE needs you. I am very lucky in that whatever may be wrong with my brain, I’ve never actively considered it.
HOWEVER. I also have a fucked-up way of looking at things. So, an acquaintance posted this on Facebook…
…and I know what they’re TRYING to say, but suicide *absolutely* ends the chances of life getting worse. It ends the chances of…LIFE.
Does it ALSO eliminate the possibility of things getting better? Sure. But this is just a faulty construct.
(I’m leaving out that things don’t always get better for everyone, and if I were suicidal, this might make me feel worse, like things get better for everyone BUT me and I’m just not trying hard enough, but I’m just focusing on the biology.)
I’ve posted about this before, but what’s SUPER fun about depression is all the ways it looks that I didn’t know about before I saw doctors for it. And apparently in ME, it looks a lot like being an exhausted, lazy asshole. And since I frequently AM an exhausted lazy, asshole, it’s hard to differentiate.
So basically any time I’m tired I get anxious that I’m depressed, and then I can’t sleep, which is just goddamn delightful.
And I’m still not convinced I even HAVE depression. I feel like there’s a diet or a vitamin I haven’t tried yet that would just fix me right up, and my doctors are just throwing pills at me because that’s what doctors do for middle-aged, middle-class white women. Maybe all I need is, like, less gluten and more St. John’s Wort or whatever the shit.
Human brains and bodies are stupid and obsolete. I demand an upgrade.
Post-therapy-by-phone text to friends.
I might leave work early and pick up some more bonus therapy by way whiskey. And fried cheese. That’s probably what she really meant by “journaling.”
My stepmother left a 5-word comment on my Facebook post, which led to me contacting my therapist to request an extra session.
So…that seems perfectly healthy…
Well, I mean…you could just…NOT.
As far as I know that’s still an option we gals have, no?
(Seen in an interview with style bloggers.)
Today is Day 9 of my 10-day vacation, and it’s the only day I don’t HAVE to do anything.
But I started thinking about getting my apartment in order while I have time, and then about what kind of decor and furniture I want, which led to remembering I have zero sense of style, and to wondering HOW I have such a wide spectrum of things that appeal to me, like how I equally want my apartment to look like Olivia Pope’s but also just bought groovy yoga art and hot pink mixing bowls, and to “Do I want to stay in my tiny apartment or get a bigger place so I can have other rooms to play with different styles, AND an office and a dishwasher?” and to “City or suburbs?” and to “East Coast or West?” and to “What do I want from my fucking LIFE?!”, which led to a headache, and now I’m going back to bed.
That is what I want from life.
See also: Replacing this cup of coffee with water, and perhaps also Valium.
Smug Singleton 