Rabid monkeys with fancy tools

Depression, or something like it. This downness. What caused it? The thought of leaving? The thought of leaving my mom, my dad, my blue-eyed boy (makes an effort to wink), my family, my friends, my home (what’s left of it anyhow) …? Maybe just my bloody hormones. The end of a high. And it only comes at night, late when there’s nothing but the darkness for comfort. I tried to read a book to lift my spirits, and reached for the first book I saw. Everything’s Eventual by Stephen King. Read this short story about a bank robber watching his mate slowly die. Got shot in the lung, he did. Rotted from the inside out. Gangrene on his breath. NOT VERY UPLIFTING. I don’t even want to cry. I just want to shrivel up and die. The rhyme is coincidental.
And rest assured, I will be myself by tomorrow morning, afternoon, evening. And at night, I don’t want to think of it. Where’s the alcohol when you need it.
I want to reach out to someone. But I wouldn’t know how.

Song: Miss you by Blink182
Mood: Chewing gum on the ground, crushed peanut shells, a derelict house, so on and so forth.
Book: Dark Lord of Derkholm by Dianna Wynne Jones. What. I’m trying to cheer myself up. Heck, I’d even give chick lit a try at this very moment. Quick pass me Shopgirl or what have you.

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