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.