Yesterday I came to the conclusion that, within the four walls of my shower and bedroom, I like to imagine that I'm depressed.
There I was singing in the morning, when I realised that for the past half hour I'd been crowing on about how bloody miserable I am. The thing is I'm not. Well, not that I know of. Suddenly that warm feeling of fakeness crawled up my throat and stopped me mid-Eels song.
After flicking through my playlist for confirmation, it's quite apparent that I'd been constantly referring to talking cats and kicking people in the eye through my depressing disillusionment with life. Then I went to my bookshelf; The Black Sheep, The Plague, World War Z, The Case Against God, Fred and Rose...the list goes on. It's like pre-training for the Samaritan SAS. I seriously need to crack open that De Mello book on Awareness.
Stepping back from the noose, outside those aforementioned four walls I actually skip to work in the mornings and relish 1980's pop music and bro-mance comedies. In fact, I've been noted as one of the most friendly people in Langold - even more so that the simple kid who loves Dib Dabs.
So, I've come to conclusion that I love to feel depressed through the mediums of song and literature. And it's not just me. Some of the chumiest people I know love to croon to Morrissey (even whilst making love) and debate the general demise of life - it's like Sean Penn's Jeff Spicoli carrying a library card whilst using both parts of his brain.
It seems we all love to spend an alloted time desiring to be depressed, just as long as the emergency stop button is well within reach. Now I'm off to listen to Harmonix by Surfer Blood and chill out.
