This is a distillation of experience.

I am a thin woman. It’s always been my ace in the hole. I would have much preferred perfect skin or lustrous thick hair, however.

I skipped the Depression & Anxiety group tonight because it’s basically just psychology 101.  Fuck it.  I’d rather eat pizza & cookies and wash it all down with a $7 bottle of wine. 

I call it self-care.  Look it up.  (That would be my defense against my boyfriend if he expressed disapproval about my choice.  “But you do that [pizza, etc.] every night!” would be his effective rejoinder.)

My shining moment in the group, thus far, was when I pointed out to the therapist, Jenny, that it wasn’t fair to expect us to be like Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor and famous author, who wrote, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”  The quote was in the packet for that evening, and Jenny described how Frankl, whose situation was completely horrific (his wife, mother, and brother died in concentration camps), managed to find meaning and hope in his life amidst extreme suffering.  If Viktor Frankl can beat depression, you should have no problem with it was the message she gave us.  I remarked on the extraordinariness of Frankl and explained that we would find more relevance in the story of a common person in the 21st century who had overcome clinical depression through a combination of therapy and medication.  I knew at least some of the other group members agreed with me, because I saw them tinily nod in agreement.  It made me feel good.   

All the beautiful women and their rundown cars, the brakes squeaking at every stop sign and rattling tires, cracked windshields.

Sometimes the only thing that will get me out of bed in the morning is telling myself that I can sleep as long as I want when I get home from work.

I’ve never once seen food cross his lips.  He drinks at least 8 cups of coffee a day.  Black, with a splash of milk.  All the time he completes onerous, laborious tasks that are not technically part of his job.  Preparing a resident’s apartment for a bedbug treatment, for example, which involves removing all of their bedding and clothing, washing and drying it, and putting it away.  Once, after coming into my office while I was eating lunch, he remarked, “You’re eating again.  You already ate.”  He seemed confused.  “Yes, I am,” I replied.  “I was eating breakfast earlier, and now I am eating lunch.  I eat three times a day.”  He said, “Oh,” and then brought up the topic he wanted to address with me.  He’s my boss.  He’s a shorter man, quite thin.  He appears to have no vanity and only the smallest of egos.  He never admonishes me for being late, though I’m late nearly every day.  What’s important to him, he said, is that I show up.  He calls me the “Intelligence Officer,” because I know a lot of details about the residents’ lives.  They come into my office and divulge.

1 cup of coffee with two International Delight French vanilla creamers

1 Amy’s Mexican Casserole Bowl

1 orange

1 peanut butter & jelly sandwich

Countless vegetable chips

3 squares of dark chocolate

2 glasses of red wine

Feelings of worthlessness, exhaustion, and dread

His dick tasted like rust, as I had already been on top of him and my period was at full flow.

Phil Lynott, “Old Town”

He’s so charming in this video I can hardly stand it.

I would certainly smoke weed if I had it.