As you may or may not have noticed, I’ve suffered a major low-mood attack this week that has punched through my antidepressants and rendered me nearly catatonic for days on end. Sometimes the drugs don’t work, as the man said.
I’m fed up, basically. Fed up of it not being as cold as I’d like for mid-October. Fed up of my new diet. Fed up of my noisy neighbours and their antisocial friends/junkie clients. Fed up of the doctor and council and phone company booking me appointments for shit I couldn’t give a flying fuck about. Fed up of being so disabled. Fed up of everybody dying. Fed up of living in fear about nothing all the time since the day I was born.
I’m sure I’ll climb back out of this pit of despair eventually, but boy-oh-boy is it taking time for the negativity to subside.
I’ve bought a hand-operated can crusher, so that’s providing me with some exercise. Sadly, I have so many cans to crush due to my alcoholism. I know things are bad when I don’t care that I’m drinking morning, noon, and night. I just want to fade away into oblivion and never feel anything ever again. Matthew Perry says the first time he got drunk as a kid he wondered whether it was how “normal” people feel all the time. That’s what goes through my head every time I drink too. Still to this day.
What’s it like being normal? I do so wonder.
To quote Colonel Kurtz: “Sell the house. Sell the car. Sell the kids. Find someone else. Forget it. I'm never coming back. Forget it.”
So, yeah, if you need me, I’lll be in the Vietnamese jungle starting my own society and hiding in the shadows because I’m too fat to be on camera.
Or I’ll just be back next week with more opinions on bollocks that doesn’t matter to anyone.
Do stay in touch, darlings.
Toodles!
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