Why do I feel like this?
‘Cause you forgot that you’re actually depressed right now.
Yeah. Right now.
So, I should go play guitar.
Nope. You’ll just hate yourself for not playing better.
Then I should write a poem or a story or something.
You’re gonna delete most of it and feel worse for having tried at all.
What if I write in my blog. Like, I should express myself, right?
You hate this post. You’re embarrassed by it.
Damnit, I do. And I am.
Yeah. And your hair looks like shit today.
Dude. Who’s fucking side are you on?
Yours. That’s the problem.
Well, my hair will look better when it grows out a little more. It’s an unflattering length.
You’re still gonna hate it.
Whatever, it’s just hair.
No it’s not. It’s everything. You hate all your clothes too. And that’s just the outside shit.
I do hate all my clothes.
Right. But, like I said, outside shit.
Yeah, but if I’m not pretty, life will be harder.
And it’s already hard.
But it could be worse.
So could anything. You’re missing the point.
So, what then? More pills?
I mean, that’s what you usually do.
You have nothing to do today. Get as high as you want.
I have nothing to do today. Goddamnit.
I should call my sister.
Gambit. If she’s busy, you’ll feel more alone.
She’s almost always busy.
Yeah. She does shit with her free time. Like, outside of the house.
Now you’re just taunting me.
You’re taunting yourself, idiot.
Remember that night I gave up one of my longest held ambitions?
Yeah. You were OK with it. That’s the part that freaked you out.
I don’t have any remaining ambitions. They got all eroded and shit.
‘Cause you’re depressed.
I am depressed.
Not even a little either.
This is gonna suck so bad.
Really bad. You’re gonna hate yourself. For a while.
I kinda already do.
You gonna stick around?
Yeah, I got nothing to do either. Hey, don’t forget to eat or your tits’ll shrink.
Outside shit, man.
Yeah. Outside shit.
Tagged: anxiety, bipolar disorder, depression, drugs, hair, internal monologue, meds, mental health, mental illness, music, self-doubt, tits, vanity