Nov 13
Seasonal depression vs Permeant depression
Hello to the sexy people who respond to my every beck and call. Picture me on a chaise lounge in a fluffy robe that screams “I KILLED MY EX HUSBAND, OFFICER!”
Theatrical, camp, a little unhinged because under the robe is my I Hate Mondays shirt and a pair of Target boxers from 2016, back when I thought I aligned more with being a teenage boy than a beautiful woman who knows how to contour.
I come bearing erotic drama in the shape of melancholy.
Halloween was a dopamine trip for someone who is effectively sober at all times. Not on purpose. I just isolate too much and drinking feels like a Friends and Family activity I only qualify for twice a month. But it was fun. I ate my weight in Reese’s. I gained four pounds I still can’t shake two weeks later. I wore a cute little outfit with my cute little staff and everyone had that money making energy I love. I drank a celsius and threw up.
A year ago I worked Halloween at Sartiano’s and went straight home after because I literally had no idea where humans go. At least if you work it, you get to pretend you are part of the fun. You get to witness revelry from the safe distance of a velvet rope. That counts for something.
Work has been such a good distraction. I can’t pinpoint where the sadness is coming from this time. I rearranged my whole room to shake things up. I no longer watch TV from a chiropractor approved 90 degree angle. I panic bought vitamins because my diet is coffee, Diet Coke, and carbohydrates. I bought an LED light that claims it will fix my soul if I stare into it long enough. I got little scent plug ins that whisper lilac and lavender into the air. I haven’t picked up a book in weeks. I want to hide under my eye bags like a raccoon.
Not erotic at all. Quite dumpy of me.
To fight the sadness I’ve worn makeup every day for two straight weeks. I still haven’t picked up my laundry. I told myself that walking two blocks might make me feel better. Has not happened. But I did wear heels to work which should be tax deductible for emotional labor alone.
My bartender says I’m sad because I can’t afford new cabinets and because my eating disorder destroyed my intestines so now I am apparently a hollow tube. Also I’m poor. Thanks babe.
Still, I don’t think it’s any of that. I think Mercury is doing a backflip for Scorpios and I have a Scorpio moon. A wise lesbian once explained this to me in great detail outside a bodega while I was buying gum and a gatorade at 3 am.
Winter can be fun. I love nesting in blankets and pillows next to my hissing radiator that sounds like it’s filing a complaint. I love seasonal Starbucks drinks with whipped cream and cookies. I love chunky sweaters I can hide half my face in so no one recognizes me when I cross Broadway and Houston looking like a criminal in a Pinterest mood board.
Today, I saw an old friend who has become a shell of his former self. It upset me but only slightly. At least he is doing what he wants to- even if it eats at his soul and hes now more of a concept than a person. He told me I looked the skinniest he has ever seen me. So I bragged for a second. I said I was 118 and wanted to get down to 110. He did not seem thrilled. I let that hurt my feelings because I am a woman of culture and disorganized disorders.
I asked him to presave my new single on Spotify and he said he’d think about it. I told him the ketamine rotted his brain through his ass. He didn’t laugh.
Regardless, You can click this to go and presave my song,
And that is all for today. Seasonal or permanent, who knows. I’ll circle back once the LED light brainwashes me into joy.