Monday, January 23, 2012

Kind of Blue

So I don't post to this blog very often these days.  I don't post anywhere these days, really.

I don't make music any more.

I don't really take photos too much; when I do, they sorta


I've gone kinda silent.

You see, the painful truth is that

even though I'm not an entirely self-delusional guy

you know, I pay attention to how fucked up I am

and even though I see a head-shrinker, and I talk crap out with some of my friends.

Well, you see, that pesky clinical depression has reared its ugly head again.

I choose the words carefully because I'm not exactly blue -- hell, we're all blue once in a while, and we're all sad once in a while, and we're all tired once in a while, and a lot of us feel hopeless anytime that we're

oh, paying attention.

But I say clinical depression because I've got some experience with it. I've had it before, and it manifests itself very differently from sadness or the other emotions that I've described.  It's painfully physical in some ways.  Depressingly physical.

Ha ha.

Anyway, I thought I'd throw this up on the ol' mulescreen because this blog is not just moribund, it's actually dead.  Deader than a doornail.

But doornails, like Nikki Sixx, can be brought back to life.

I'm hoping to bring this blog back to life soon.

But I won't be talking about politics anymore.  You see, I'm more convinced than ever that you're all as convinced that you're right as I'm convinced I'm right.

And I don't intend to post anything about climate change, or football.  I don't support climate change, and I don't support football.  At least not American football.

Of course, my goddamned girlfriend went and ruined y perfect record  -- I'd made it through THE ENTIRE NFL season without seeing a minute of football. And then yesterday, when I said that we should watch it since there'd be people in her office dying to talk about it, she allowed that she was interested.

So we wtched the last couple of minutes of a game.

She'll have one disappointed office, and I'll be one disappointed puppy.

Not just disappointed -- depressed. 


mister muleboy said...

and yes, I'm going to go in and address the chemistry o' my brain. I know that I have undue serotonin reuptake, but I'm not sure I'll go with traditional SSRIs again -- I like to have orgasms when I have sex.

And if I can whip this clinicial depression, then by Gahd I might wanna have sex.

Finding a willing partner will be hell, of course, but that's what chloroform is for.

I kid. . . .

Who Am Us Anyway? said...

One of the metaphors you used to describe your blog reminded me of a story that a law school bud told me about his uncle. I forget what the terminal illness was, but his uncle had it, & they had notice, and so a large contingent of family was out there in the hall while the closer relatives, the inner circle one might well say, were inside the hospital room with the door closed. At last his dad came out, looking somber indeed. All eyes were upon him.

“Is he --?” someone asked.

“As a doornail,” his dad inexplicably said.

At which point of course the hallway convulsed with ghastly, pent-up, & wildly infectious & inappropriate laughter, scandalizing the family still in the room as well as the medical staff down the hall who couldn’t imagine wtf.

Re watching the last couple minutes of the game … this has long been Ms. Who’s theory as well, especially with hoops sports. “What’s the score?” she’ll ask.

“92-87, I’ll say; 2 minutes to go.”

“You know,” she’ll say, “you could just turn these games on with 2 minutes to go and it would still be 92-87 & a lot more efficient.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Two nights later: “How much time left in the game?”

“Couple minutes.”

“What’s the score?”

“Ninety—hey, none of your business!”

Anonymous said...

thinking of you and hoping you get the upper hand on the damned CD.
take good care of yourself.
Carol B