How Low Can You Go?

It’s official – I’m depressed.

Lately, I feel about as palpable as a downed power line on a lonely country road. I realize it’s silly to feel this way, but it’s as if an entire emotional wormhole has suddenly been opened into my very soul sucking in every negative ion within a hundred thusand square miles. Things just seem darker these days than the Harlem Globetrotters inside a Cheerio’s cereal box.

It’s like life, which under normal circumstances for me is about as thrilling as women’s golf, has been giving me the royal enema treatment; only it’s not being polite or professional in using the streamlined greased up nozzle end. Instead it’s going in dry, and its going in hard and deep.

I feel about as confident as Rocky Dennis at a Malibu beach party. I’m as broke as a three dollar wrist watch, I have a body like a sack of walnuts, and this morning I even woke up with a zit on the side of my nose that would make John Merrick look away in disgust – oh, woe is me!

I know at my age, I shouldn’t let these trivial matters bother me so much, but I can’t help it much either - I can't seem to shake it.

So in order to combat these complex negative emotions, I’m going to employ some radical measures that i haven't utilized since my moody high school days. I plan on spending the weekend locked in my bedroom with a jar of peanut butter and playing all my old Morrissey albums until my eardrums bleed out and I finally work all this negative anxiety out of my system for good.

Hopefully, I won't turn into a sexually ambivalent protagonist in the protest. And even if I do, perhaps it will still be for the better. Even the Moz looks to be alive and well these days as if he's been taking his Vitamin C and spending less time pondering his minute existance in this universe.

I should be so lucky.