Mornings with Drowsy Douche: The Blues

Hey depression frog! What's up?




Stricken with sadness and not wanting to move is way rad. Not knowing what to do with myself and contemplating the useless things I could occupy my time with so I don't just stare at the fucking rug or at the ceiling fan from the rug is a wicked way to crawl through winter. My apartment is a well furnished prison, and I hate prison.




Movies? Not really feeling it right now.

Books? Oh, please.

Internet? Give me darker circles under my eyes why don't you.

Coffee? The crash has become unbearable lately.

Pills? Pills beget more pills, so no.

Enema? Hmm... I think we're on the right track here, but squirtin' goop in my bunger reminds me of Arby's.

Music? Nothing with words, thank you.

Take a walk? It's -11 outside. If I take a walk outside, I'll stay outside until someone discovers my body. They'll probably break my nose off and say it was like that when they got there. And flap my lips to make it look like I'm talking. Asshole carcass finders.