The booster has been running through my veins for about ten hours. I cannot mentally move things, change things, or create things. I have to still do work. What a sham.
We have no business going into space if we haven’t figured out a cure for depression. Honestly, I would think that, once the cool factor wore off, existing in a boundless expanse of nothingness would only magnify feelings of insignificance, loneliness, and emptiness.
It seems kind of insensitive to keep referring to the resurrection at a funeral. Like, God, why are you rubbing it in?
No one thinks you’re funny when you’re depressed.
Glue your heart back together with mozzarella and paint it with pinot.
I wish you a journey of yellow lights with a bored, smalltown cop riding behind you the entire time. I wish you lactose sensitivities and a gluten allergy at a restaurant that says they have a full gluten-sensitive menu but really only serves two salads. I hope that one of them is your all-time favorite salad and that while you’re enjoying it, a delicious bite goes down the wrong pipe and causes your life to flash before your eyes. I hope that someone in the room learned CPR about three years ago and saves your life, but also cracks a few ribs in the process. The therapist said that I’m not supposed to waste my time wishing you ill so instead, I wish you regularly inconvenienced.
How many of these cardio classes do I have to endure before my depression is cured?
“Oh, did you have a cheat meal?”
Nope, I was eating my feelings. Loyalty had nothing to do with it.
I once asked my dad why he backed into parking spots when we went to church. He kept his eyes forward as we walked from the back of the parking lot to the church’s front door. “Quicker exit,” he said, and I think about this as I pull into the parking lot at work and watch the side mirrors as I back myself into a corner spot.
“You know what’s better than being sad?”
“Are we having cake?”
“Nope. You’re getting pasta, but that’s similar.”