Surreality

One of the most bizarre aspects of depression is the disconnect from “normal” life. Being unable to sleep at night, leading to large overdoses of melatonin (because the idea of facing more pointless, hatefully devoid-of-content television in the same semi-upright orientation is just intolerable), followed by hours of restless thrashing and redirecting the fan (toowarmtoocooltoowarmohdamnitallmyhairismoving), followed by 12 hours of utterly surreal, totally inescapable dreams. Making omelets at 2 pm, still bemused by said dreams. Followed by the inevitable awkward argument with self over trying to actually get shit done, with the inevitable results (“nah, it’s too late to accomplish anything”). Followed by the sneaking, “I’m not looking at what I’m doing so I can’t feel guilty about it” search for entertainment engrossing enough to distract me from what I’m not doing (“Lalalalalalala I’m not listening to youuuuuuuu”)...all of which leads to drinking in the middle of the day wearing a cracking leprous clay facial mask which sheds little crunchy flakes all over the furniture (it sounded like a good idea at the time), feeling inspired by someone else’s blog, and writing the world’s longest pointless run-on sentence.

Well. So. *Ahem.* Yep.

This would be the perfect moment for some shiny cheerful well-adjusted Canadian teenager to ring the doorbell, looking for contributors to his/her chosen (and utterly worthy) charity. (WTH? I never suffered the degradation of door-to-door for anything less than pure entrepreneurial greed. Gawds, I’m so American.) Just to complete the picture of me, overweight, bra-less, in jeans that truly need to be laundered (but nothing else fits so I refuse to put them in the laundry and hang out in my underwear because my laptop scorches my legs and I just KNOW that damn doorbell’s gonna ring and I won’t be able to hide), wearing a stone-age shaman’s demon-face, clutching a tequila sunrise.

I don’t know why I’m unable to ignore someone knocking at the door. Our doorbell is fatally crumbled away, necessitating sticking one’s finger into a jagged-plastic-shard-filled slot to ring the bell (which still works)...oddly, people tend to knock, instead. Which we really, truly cannot hear from anywhere except 15 feet away in the living room. Provided we aren’t playing music or drinking something with clink-y ice cubes or doing anything other than breathing quietly. No one ever knocks on our door except shiny cheerful Canadian teenagers soliciting for worthy charities. I know this, but I still can’t help answering the damn door. After which I’m compelled to trot out the same excuses for not contributing, which STILL don’t come out in any fashion that could be considered smooth and facile, no matter how ofter I have to dredge them up. After which I cannot avoid thinking about the ugly state of our finances, which are, in large part, my fault for being a thesis-avoiding chickenshit perpetual-grad-student money pit. After which I need another drink and a SERIOUSLY distracting source of entertainment.

Shit, I’m funny when I’ve been drinking tequila.

I am so gonna regret this post when I’m back in my right mind.