Well, hi there! It’s three in the morning, and I really should be in bed. Unless I’m sleep-typing, and it appears as though I’m not. Insomnia is one of the fun symptoms of depression that I have learned to live with. Have I mentioned I suffer from…wait, fuck that. Have I mentioned that I own clinical depression? (I like to make it sound as though I possess it at my own will, as opposed to being mentally raped by it; which is the reality.)
Although I’m sure all of you are dying to read a weepy ass blog about
Right now, I am on what I call an Up Swing in my
cycle depressive voyage. Up Swings are a good time, in which I am more ‘myself’,
and functional. The opposite, or my Down Swings, (see the clever word play, there?)
are not so fun. Although more productive, I’ve come to notice that the Up
Swings have this obnoxious side effect of sleeplessness.
So I’m taking my insomnia lemons, and making some insomnia Lemon Blog Pie. (I could just make insomnia lemonade, but a pie crust sounds really delicious right this instant.)
Lemon Blog Pie Ingredient One: the Lemons-
Ever have one of those sour moments in life where you can actually almost see yourself mid-fail, and you kind of want to die inside? (Yes, this is me on an Up Swing. Just imagine how I’d describe that if I were on a Down Swing.) Twenty minutes ago, I realized that sleep would not be happening for me, and decided to step outside for some fresh air to listen to the babbly brook creek dealy thingee that runs in the woods. (Again, don’t expect some Pulitzer Prize winning descriptions, here. Take what you can get.) I went to perch upon my porch swing, but much to my consternation, it was sopping wet from what I’m assuming was rain. (Unless someone really had to pee. And if they peed on my cushions, a plague upon their house.) I spied a large rock I could sit on, instead. So sit down I did, and began to listen to the dreamy trickle of the creek. (Unless the person who peed on my cushions was peeing nearby, creating a dreamy trickling noise.)
I sighed contently, and went to lean back on the back side of the rock that unfortunately didn’t exist. I felt myself falling backwards slowly, and managed to tighten some sort of emergency ab muscle I didn’t know I had to slow myself as I descended. “Huh.” I thought mid-air, “This is going to suck in second.”
I do love being right, and I sure was. I landed face up in a rock and mud pile, with my legs straight up in the air like a sexy beetle on its back, clad in pink striped pajama pants, and a hoodie. You’d think that I would have leapt up indignantly, but I actually didn’t move for a moment. I stared at my pink stripy pajama legs in the air, and thought, “Huh. Yeah. This sucks.”
I love being right.
I realized that leaping up in mud and rocks wasn't a bright idea, so I rolled over onto my side; and really felt like I was starring in a Shamu the whale National Geographic pictorial. As I lumbered back inside to assess the damage, I noticed my wrist was now sporting one of those irritating epidermis scrapes that peels back the first layer of skin, does not bleed, but still manages to burn like a mo-fo. These really suck, because you cannot complain about them to your friends without sounding like a whiny toddler. Blood and guts are what earns sympathy, not dry superficial scrapes that don’t even require a Dora Band-Aid.
Now my rear end was a different story. My pink pajama pants were now a flattering shade of mud, and as I de-pants-ed myself in the mirror, I saw the blushing right on my pork butt (Or are those considered ham hocks? Where are hocks located, anyways? A hock sounds disgusting.) of what would eventually be some nice bruises on my ass from the rocks. I felt quite offended, as I can’t garner any sympathy from ass bruises. Showing those off only earns you an indecent exposure charge.
Lemon Blog Pie Ingredient Two: Attention Deficit Disorder-
I think this is the part where I’m supposed to mention a crust, or Cool Whip, or some other Martha Stewart shit like that. But you know what? I’m bored with writing. I’m rocking some sleep deprived dry eyes, scraped up wrist that doesn’t like my keyboard, and a stone traumatized booty.
Lemon Blog Pie Ingredient Three: the Final Touch-
Some things are better left unsaid. And some things are better left undone. Like this blog.
Lemon Blog Pie Final Step: Formal Presentation To the Famished Guest-
Assuming they don’t strap a strait jacket on me and send me to Hotel Padded Wall Inn, I’ll see you kiddies next time. I’m off to (maybe) sleep.