this imploding heart

I hope that if I found the strength to walk out, you'd stay the hell outta my way.

Here is what I'm going to tell you about Seasonal-A' don' wanna get outta bed, a' wanna Die-disorder. Also known as S.A.D or JANUARY.

You think its a fake, but then it sneaks up on you and robs you blind.

For example, most weekdays I spend the morning chatting up the whole freaking planet. Lots of people call, lots of people ask questions, I sit around and behave in a chipper manner. Cake and I talk about nothing for a half hour or so. It's nice.

Lately, however, people still demand things of me, and I still have to act nice, but inside, I think to myself, "Self, this is your crappy crappy day. Another crappy day in your crappy life. Another crappy day in your crappy life in this crappy world. There is nothing you can do about all this crappyness, miss crappity sunshine."

And that crap just aint true. I do all kinds of things I like on a pretty regular basis. I have hot and amicable Tiny, who is always willing to hunker down and do some nothing, but is also always willing to attend totally retarded crap with me. I have Cake, who has won me over by dancing and singing on demand. I have a miriad of great friends who would probably be into doing something if everyone weren't feeling like crap.

But everyone is.

Generally, it's not an oppressive kind of crappiness. Just a general, "Man, stuff is crap." But sometimes, I find myself in line at the drugstore, and I just want to sit the fuck down right there amoungst the deodorants, pop open an uncooked package of ramen, and watch the epi-lady infomercial play over and over at the end of the hair and hair removal aisle while weeping quietly.

Or, while taking a walk downtown, I want to push and punch pretty much everybody. Like a tidal wave. Little individual tidal waves.
PUSH mister pizza man and
PUSH PUNCH miss banana republic outifit and
PUSH group of touring Japanese businessmen and
PUNCH PUSH lady who blocks the whole escalator with her nordstrom bags and talks on her cell phone, the entire stairway totally clear in front of her stupid bitchass nose.

The only people exempt from Punching and Pushing are babies.
Babies are the saving grace of SAD because, for some reason, they get cuter, fatter and happier the crappier I feel. (Thanks, babies. While you may grow up to be annoying adults, you're providing a much needed service in your youth. ) I've sunk to openly cooing at babies on TV, just to get a little rush of not-crappityness.

In winters past, I've waded through the crappiness by drinking burbon in the bathtub for a few months at a time. This year, my oppressive fear of pre-calculus and my unwillingness to uncoil from the feotal position have prevented this therapy. So this year, I've decided that the me who feels like crap and the me who does things I enjoy are 2 seperate people. One who only gets to feel like crap, and who is allowed to speak only when spoken to. One who does The Twist on demand and knows that eventually, the sun will come out, and every Crapface will turn back into a Hotpants.

Posted by Sonya at January 15, 2004 09:59 AM