Saturday, November 10, 2012

Lost in Seritonia

Life was quickly becoming boring. All that happiness, all the pleasure, it was all just a bit much. Everything had been going fine for way too long, in fact so much so that I could hardly remember the last time I’d wallowed in the mire of a good depression. What I needed was a little angst to get stuck in my throat so I could choke a bit, sputter out a few expletives, dress my bed with the comforter of self pity that I might sleep more comfortably underneath the weight of the congealed mass of my lifetime’s misfortunes and give the least of my friends the golden parachute they desired that they might leave me forever and still blame me for their action.

I began where all good deep thinking is done, on the toilet. Sure, it sounds vulgar, but where else can one sit without distraction for as long as “it” takes?

First I pictured all those people that have done me wrong, hoping that I could kick start my misery without having to delve into my own faults. Let’s be honest, everyone wants someone else to lay their troubles on, if it weren’t for the cruelty of the human beast we wouldn’t be so sad, true? Pas tout à fait?

It was a little hard to get a visual, there are so many guilty creatures the montage stretched on for a half mile (in the brain one inch equals ¼ mile, in case you’re in the same position one day) I can’t really remember an earlier slight than when Nicky Olsen bashed my head into my home’s concrete stoop when I was four, so in spite of the fact that I’m instinctively positive I was done dirt well before my fourth birthday, my first photo was of Nicky. I drew a mustache on it immediately, though that resulted in my giggling which was counterproductive.

Once the wall of shame was intact, I rifled through the images as if they were rolodex pages, each picture causing a physical reaction to the memory leaving me a tic ridden floppy rag by the time I’d reached the present. Still, not one creep shot to the fore, not one scourge so overpowered the rest that I was able to pluck him or her from the maelstrom and allow the wound they’d inflicted upon my tender sensibilities to reopen and fester properly. So I was forced to concentrate my efforts on the most vicious of my attackers, my ex wives.

I thought and thought and thought some more about all the rotten things these two had done to me while I was putty in their wicked hands, and I must admit I came up with enough anecdotes to fill a black hole and had some left over with which I might be able to mix up a paste and coat the surface of the sun. But still, as hard as I squeezed that sponge of the collected tears of years gone by, I could not eke out enough venom to poison me. I’d never have thunk it, they’ve always been a mainstay of my misery, why they’re the capital G in my Gloom! And yet, I was driven to move on, before I lost all feeling in my legs.

So I turned to old reliable, inward, to the mass of cherry jello I like to call… ME. I do suck after all, there was little doubt in my mind that I’ be able to find suitable petards with which to hoist myself toward the ever cloudy sky.

I tried to lay out all my mistakes, like dominoes, the stupid ones butted up against the stupid ones and then the creepy ones touching the other creepy ones. The problem was there were too many categories. Even alphabetizing was going to be a pain, given that my feet were already asleep, so I just whizzed through a few assuming it wouldn’t take more than a dozen or so to set me on the downward spiral.

Starting with the wimpiest of self aggrandizements like ”could have been a pro hockey player, but can’t skate… you MORON!” and working my way up to heavy hitters like “forgot to pay your bills last month cuz you were busy havin a heart attack cuz you still smoke cuz you’re such a miserable creep, you MORON!” I attempted to spring the trap that would eventually drag me down, funkify my days, deliver me to wretchedness, amen. But, nothing worked. I called myself every name in the book, I admitted every fault, exposed every secret, railed upon every blemish and… nothing. Just shrugs. Just, “yea, so what”s.

What the hell was wrong with me I wondered? Had I lulled myself into some horrifying complacency? Had the infectious pod people who spend their days smiling and clapping each other on their backs finally broken through my immune system and filled me with the same disease they share? The dread… positivity?

I had only one place to turn. Hobbling, as both feet and my right leg were now devoid of blood altogether, I found my wife, and saying nothing but only that which can be expressed by the eyes, pleaded with her for an answer to my dilemma.

“You took your Prozac this morning, didn’t you” she said matter of factly.

SHIT! I HAD! DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT! A pox on Eli Lilly for ruining my life!

I wrote myself a note. “DO NOT TAKE PROZAC THIS MORNING!” and taped it to the inside of the medicine cabinet. I only hoped I would be able to read upon waking, or this nightmare would begin again!

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