you are 73% of the way through ‘the newcomes.’
you find yourself googling ‘donating plasma‘ in the middle of the night. (you’re not going to do it. you couldn’t even make it halfway through that article.) (you’ve got shy veins, anyway, that always run and hide. and then you start thinking about botched executions. and compulsively talking to the technician about botched executions. and freaking both of you out.)
driving for a ridesharing company seems like a more viable option. though my car (suddenly i remembered i owned a car!) (suddenly i’m tired of the second person) is doing this shuddering thing. it has a weird kind of transmission. basically it feels like i’m learning to drive a manual. i could see riders bitching about that. (suddenly i remembered i owned a car because i had to take it to the dealer where i learned about the hybrid transmission my car has, and i was ashamed to think that i didn’t know this when i bought it. but i was more focused on the color.) (i should say ‘him.’ he has a name. pedro cause it’s a fiesta! eh?)
got to do something. of course. i think the only way i’ll be able to figure out what to do is to dig out of the deep depression i’ve been in for the past let me see now eight years or so. give or take thirty. i don’t even mean figure out what to do in a life-affirming, dignity-bringing sense, i mean even in a basic maintenance sense, because when you’re depressed this way—where you don’t feel like you deserve to exist or communicate with others—that is, when your depression is rather complicated by low self-esteem—writing about how great you are is the hardest thing in the world. reading job announcements is hard because it seems like every one is a special note to you describing the qualifications you lack and how much you suck when compared to the person that’s going to be hired. going out of the house is hard—hell, even leaving your apartment is hard, because you’re afraid everyone in your neighborhood is looking at you, all not being at work despite its being traditional working hours, and they can tell that you’re a slacker loser miscreant. everything, of course, is hard. that’s [my] depression. it has its comical side. of course.
and of course the cure is so impossibly easy—you have to talk to people, take care of yourself, and just generally pretend not to be the way you are. read your damn daily affirmations. i feel so embarrassed admitting that i actually have to make ‘not being depressed’ an explicit goal—up there with ‘not being afraid of people (on account of feeling worthless)’—so, add ‘not feeling worthless’ to the list too—but whatever. i’ll be embarrassed. i’d rather be embarrassed than have to go on being a monument to my life of sadness.
i went through a bunch of books in my living room last night to find titles to sell—what do you know, i found Vanity Fair! crisply dogeared where it defeated me the last time—(where pitt crawley proposes to becky sharp.) that really made me laugh. read the first few pages. (‘ah, yes. i remember this well. how many times did i try to read this book?’)