Because It's Better To Be Irrational With Me Than Rational With Someone Else ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - I am that jerk, that jerk that wears sunglasses inside. My head is throbbing. I rub my eyes from underneath my newly purchased RayBans. I open my eyes and survey my surroundings. Nothing has changed from the last five minutes my eyes have opened, and five minutes before that. I was still wearing my beloved plaid shirt and my beloved skinny jeans and soaked wet Converse. My hair was still a pure blond mess and it smelled heavenly. Oh dear, how beautifully it smelled. And he was still cutting the white powder on the flat surface of some book. I closed my eyes. How did I get here? Living so close to the border is a blessing. I get to escape to a �different� country every weekend if I so please. And I do so. This time I had nothing better to do, so I rented a car and I drove. I drove by to the closest touristy spot, and walked around. I knew the streets. I knew the signs. I was bored and tired. And depressed. Depressed because I had nothing to be excited about. I spent hours crying over just anything that came to my mind. They call it clinical depression and they apologize that they cannot treat it. My potentially lethal allergy to medications prevents them from prescribing me anti-depressants. And my brain disorder actually precedes any other problems (like depression), and I am already on medication (although not quite for my disorder and for babies, but the best they could do). Usually I talk. A lot. To forget about the fact I can�t breathe, the fact my heart is always in my throat, the fact I want to throw up from pain and sadness. Usually, I indulge in photography, because only when you�re sad can you see the true beauty. Usually, I bike and drive and play with my pets and read and just occupy myself to the point where I don�t have time to sit still and ponder about new non-existent reasons to cry. So I walked and walked and some shady looking scumbags invited me for some party. When you�re truly depressed, you feel no fear, because everything already is as bad as it can be, so nothing horrible that can happen will ever truly surprise you, it�s expected. So I joined them at their �party� in their scumbag motel. I rub my eyes again. I am bored. This does not please me. The rest of the party joins, I do not move. They look at me and wait for me to come up. I just rub my temples. �Anything to declare? Any firearms? Any illegal substances? Any tobacco or alcohol products?� I shake my head. �Did you make any purchases during your stay here?� I nod and show him the caramel apple, �You people make the best ones.� The guard laughs, �See you in couple weeks then?� I shrug my shoulders. This is ridiculous, I come here so often that even the border guards know me. I speed and eat my apple. You really do not know what happiness is if you are forced to resort to inducing it through chemical compounds (be it drugs or alcohol). Even as a person who is clinically depressed, I know this. If you can�t be happy just because you are alive, you will never be happy. I�m screwed then.
1:42 a.m. - September 28, 2010 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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