Dude is a hoarder of the LADIES, amirite?

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.

My handbasket will be in the express lane to Hell.

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.)

Time for a new OS

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.

Call Me By Your Name

Jesus Christ, book I’m reading. Just call me out by name next time, damn…
 
(The Year of Less, by Cait Flanders, if you wondered. I wasn’t expecting to feel so personally attacked by a book about saving money and getting rid of clutter.)
attack

Feeling your feelings BLOWS.

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.”