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.

Sadder Day

Today, I was visited by an old acquaintance of mine who I hadn't seen in a while. I call him Depression Toad.


Up until a few weeks ago, I hadn't felt his presence in months. I had problems, sure, but nothing that couldn't be defeated with Internet porn, taking a walk while listening to music, reading magazines while drinking coffee, or thinking about Ol' Dirty Bastard.



Then, my Zayde passed away. My enthusiasm for life, this blog, getting a job, and personal relationships greatly waned. I don't know if it was seeing my Bubbie in tears or lack of sleep coupled with the stress that week, but my general attitude changed. I was on a pretty good roll for a few months there, even after some invasive procedures into my stomach and teeth. But those three days in Toronto killed it.

When I got back, I decided that I needed new furniture, and spent too much time on craigslist procuring new items. I made new business cards. I got weirder with this blog. I did everything but sit down and talk about my shit to someone who cares enough about me to listen without passing judgment.

I realize now that I was just trying to keep myself busy, because I already knew that I had lost a step, and wanted desperately to keep rolling on as if nothing had changed. This faulty behavioral path backfired, obviously.

And today was a wakeup call. I got up after 11 hours of sleep, drank some coffee, felt horrible, took a nap, woke up, felt like compressed gray gloom, got invited out to a bar by a friend, declined, felt guilty, ate some food, and here we are.

The good thing is that I realize what I must do to pull out of this tailspin, and I will. But today reminded me of bleak Chicago winters, especially last winter, when everybody feels the way I did today; alone, tired, irritable, not wanting to go out, and having to psyche yourself up to get up and go to the bathroom or make something to eat.

I truly fear those winter days, because I need a little help from somebody who cares during those times. But it's hard to get together, as people are reticent to do anything outside their comfortably heated apartments, and they probably feel like shit as well. I'm not good on the phone, so I need to meet up with someone in person. But it takes a reason or a gimmick to get someone to come out of the house when it's 14 degrees outside and the sun was last seen with its father, Gilberto Hernandez, last November (missing children jokes are hilarious, right?). God, Jesus, Allah, and Buddha, I hate the fucking winter!

But maybe that's what this blog is for, on certain occasions. Letting off some steam so my pipes don't burst. Shifting the burden of sadness from me onto you. I hope my wretched rant wasn't too much, and if you've gotten this far, thanks for reading. I feel better already.

What do you say, Depression Toad?

Coffee Line Problems, Penitentiary Bound

I was standing in line to get some coffee today at a local cafe. Two businessmen walked in and proceeded to rap loudly about their 401k and stock options. I responded by clenching my hands into fists, taking a deep breath, and telling myself that murder is a felony. That particular felony earns ya 8 years in the clink. I just saw the movie Penitentiary at Monty's Baseball Soup's place (awkward sentence), and didn't want to end up with a softened skull whilst serving time.


Penitentiary. Great long scene with a madman either foaming at the mouth or shaving, I can't tell which. He just wants to see people's asses. Rent it as soon as possible, if you're into glistening incarcerated men.


So I waited the obnoxious loudmouths out, and I got my coffee to go.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, that's the stuff Unkie Bri-Bri would kill a statue for.


And sure, it tasted way better because of my agony. But I still felt like this:

(via Hamburger Eyes)


This always makes me feel better. I'm completely serious. I just imagine what it might feel like to be a Russian child wearing a lion costume on the subway. This is one of my favorite "not funny" pictures.



Bonus scene!

From one of the best movies ever made, Five Easy Pieces. Jack Nicholson calmly blows his fuse while ordering an omelette and toast. This is probably the scene that got him the role of Jack Torrance in The Shining. When Stanley Kubrick saw this scene, he stood up in the theater and was like, "Sheeeeiiitt, peanut! That white boy goes from simmering anger to outright violence in point oh-shit seconds! That muffucka gotz to be my new nephew! Brain stem!"




Side note: Did you know that Stanley Kubrick was a member of the militant 70's group, the Blackface Panthers? It's a fact. Huge racist. More posts later tonight. I got way lots of time and many tricks up my bathrobe.