One of my lovely blogland friends recently wrote me an email asking how I am. What she should have asked was, where you at biznatch? Under a rock? Or, more likely, a mountain of Tootsie Roll wrappers? Where I really be is under a mountain of homework hiding under a mountain of depression hiding under a mountain of Tootsie Roll wrappers. Also an impressive number of empty cheese containers. BUT. Recyclable. So consider the earth saved. Send your thanks in the form of cheese.
I decided it would be a good idea to go back to school to learn medical billing and coding since the whole Master’s in social work hasn’t done shit for me lately. And this ain’t no Master’s program where you can fake your way through papers with a little finesse and a whole lot of bullshit. No, this school actually requires homework. Like every day. For several hours. Oy. Add in a little three-year old bipolar demonic action, a genetically enhanced dash of el depressioñ and a pinch of switching schools mid-stream and you pretty much got where I’m at.
Now is where the depressed lady in the room(me) talks depression talk. Blah, blah, blah, life is hard, yada, yada, yada, cry me a river of JT’s golden tears. Or if I were awesome like Tracy(and the sweet lady internet knows I wish I was(minus the tenuous self-esteem)(oh WAIT…))(revel in the awesome that is the triple parenthetical), I would illustrate my pain with a sweet little lolly figure smashed flat like a bug under the infinity sized weight that is MAH TROUBLES and everyone would laugh and nod knowingly because I got it all justright, captured the very essence of depression in just a few hilarious and authentic words and pictures. And if I were Allie, you would have already read and internalized the awesome that I put down upon the page and you would simply in marvel in ALL THE THINGS I can express both poignantly and matter of fact-ly attheverysametime. If I were Jenny, I would be rallying the entirety of the internets to perpetrate some madcap, whimsical adventure involving varmints of varying size, shape and degree of decompose, former science fiction badasses gone primetime and a hand thrown tortilla resembling Jesus’ third nipple that connects us all to the next one, like a zany world sized version of Dry Bones, makes us all feel exhilarated, out of breath and like we could eat the eye of the tiger for lunch and LOVE IT, and turn that depression upside down, on it’s ear and into furious happiness.
But I am none of those peeps and I can do none of those feats of magicks. Depressed people don’t write. Or at least, this depressed person don’t. Write. Except to add things to the grocery list like milk, cheese, 36 bags of Cadbury Mini Eggs, self-esteem, a degree that actually allows me to obtain employment, toilet paper(to mop up all the tears). And butter. Because everything is better with butter. Even tears. Especially tears.
What I can do is whine in a semi-coherent fashion and play you musacks saved from Shazam. To soothe savage beasts and SAHM’s in the ‘burbs.
Landslide. Kills me every time in every version. Although I am partial to what the Pumpkins do with it. His voice fits the mood oh, so well. But those kids bring it to a new place. Even children get older, yo. Deep. This is the kind of song ripe for the wist. And as I’m already swimming in the wist, the radio threw me down the well with this one.
And then, to keep it interesting, I got this.
All I can say I must be motherfucking Superman by now. And yet I can never, ever open the damn jar of sauce. Your theory is invalid, KC. Although you kick more ass than any other AI alum. And you are an empowerer of women, which makes you aces in my book.
Just because it’s awesome. And I love y’all. And I tend to think in threes these days.