What to write?
The Depression gets me. I fight it. I battle it over the weekend. As it lurks behind me I find ways to evade it. To prolong my decency. Prolong a sense of normalcy.
But it takes hold. It immobilizes me. And eighty percent of victory is immobilizing one's opponent.
I believe I read that somewhere.
Regardless, it cripples me and digs in. Begins devouring whatever positivity I was cultivating. Tears through the layers of optimism and vigor I had been generating. Ravages the remnants of hope within me.
So I do what I've been trained to do. I do what I know best. What I've perfected. What has seemed to get me through every other time.
I head to the liquor store. I drive there mechanically. Robotically. Lifelessly.
I walk in with programmed steps and tersely interact with the cashier.
I leave with a pack of cigarettes and a pint of Jim Beam and take no time to consume the two.
It's only after a few cigarettes lay in the ashtray and the whiskey bottle sits half empty that I come to. That I become me again. That I get to feel once again.
And I feel wretched. I feel so wretched.