…the Thoughts That Come Unbidden Department sends down things like “If I died now there’d be enough money in my bank account to cover my funeral, easy.”
Here is the grand thing about the cycling depression that seems to have gripped my life: when I’m up – and I use the term in the most qualified manner because I don’t think “not completely and utterly hopeless and so miserable it takes 10 minutes to decide which grocery store I want shop at to buy ice cream ’cause I’m afraid I’ll make the wrong choice and they won’t have ice cream and then I’ll get frustrated and cry in public because I’m that inflexible and strung out emotionally, and I’ll come home with no ice cream and someone will yell at me” doesn’t really qualify as “happy” – I resent the Inky Black that spreads rot with a single thought.
I resent it with every fiber of my being because I am fully and completely aware that time is short; a long life is not guarenteed, and who wants to look back at her 40 or 50 years and have a majority of the days in the “Christ that sucked” column?
Stick to vanilla. They always have vanilla.