Depression may not be a many-splendid thing, but it sure is amazing.
Before i even stepped in my apartment this evening, i wanted to go to sleep so the day would be over. But i couldn't do that, for then tomorrow would come too soon.
I could scarcely do anything. I could barely read email. And when i did, with the aid of alcohol, i could not reply. It was all too taxing.
I wanted to email JD to thank him for getting me thru what would've been an ugly weekend. Couldn't even do that. I had obsessed for days over not scoring a second date with Matt. He'd said he'd call, but didn't. You'd think i'd be used to rejection by now.
When someone becomes an object of affection i always put him on a pedestal.
"Let's face it," I mused with JD over the weekend. (Bless his heart for being my rock.) (He'd laugh.) "Even if Matt wanted to have a relationship, i couldn't do it."
The truth can be so grim.
I remember the other week when Matt noticed me moping around and remarked that i wasn't "[my] usual happy self".
"My happy self is not 'usual'," i replied. "This is usual."
Ah, perhaps that's why i didn't get a second date. You think?
The only thing that remotely cheered me up today was reading the specials at Red Lobster. (I'm on their mailing list.) See Mediterranean Jumbo Shrimp Linguini, pictured above. In a garlic-herb butter sauce with artichokes, sautéed onions, and fresh diced tomatoes. It's divine - I know, because i just had it last Saturday. (Alone, since there's no one to dine with, mind you.) (I've heard self-pity is not attractive.) But even something that pleasurable is for a limited time only.
I'd write more, but i'm afraid i'm amply crippled.
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