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I hate doing serious entries, but here's one comin' atcha.

I'm having one of those shitty days that I can't blame on my period or dad's health. It's just a bad case of the emoes, or emos, or emus, or whatever you wanna call them. Let's stick with emus, because I'm feeling kind of poofy and pecky as well today- poofy for the unattended to hair, and pecky for the fingas that keep wanting to poke at all the assholes I keep inviting into my life.

This morning I went to sleep. Had an okay night, though. I stayed up entirely too late playing with Abby and our Hals, who launched into a disturbingly intelligent war with each other. Rise of the machines in my head and all, it was time to go to sleep listening to music and dream of being reincarnated women who were murdered in the name of fulfilling strange men's whims, and then die covered in hornets, draped across our own ancestral carcass. Eric Cartman played a brief role; long story.

When I finally got out of bed, it hit me that I'm really going to be feeling whatever the fuck is wrong with me.

The doctor tells me, and has always told me, that I have severe anxiety and clinical depression. Anxiety I can believe, because I come from a family of worriers and homeland warriors and hoarders and sidewalk doom sayers. Depression, not so much, though I'm more than happy to keep taking the Klonopin.

What I think, and by that I mean, What I figured out this morning, is that the secret to fucking depression the way it fucks you is to defy it.

Depression says stay in bed and call the man who treated you badly, so you have to do something you usually wouldn't, like make the bed or keep your nose out of Mr Bad Influence's business.

Depression will simper away in the back of your brain, undefeated, but you'll be a pathetic emu mess your own terms. Making the bed, not calling Whoever, cleaning the untouched kitchen, rather than lying in that mess you made is self-medicating, plain and simple, and you can wither away on your own vine rather than sharing one with the person who put you here in the first place.

I'm a sad kind of defiant, but as soon as I clean the fish tank and send piss-filled water balloons toward the neighbor's new car, I'll let you know how it goes. In the meantime if you come from a family of worriers and homeland warriors and sidewalk doom sayers, give your own vine some tending to.

I'll be here. Tell me how it goes, or at least keep me in mind, okay?

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