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?
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
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
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
into 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
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’d 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 (the price one pays for thinking deep thoughts on the toilet), 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 one month cuz you were busy havin a heart attack cuz
you still smoked 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!
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!