Alcohol forces you to conjure strange images of your Grandfather—shirtless—as he drives a police car into a Gas Station full of thumbtacks. Gets out of the car and pushes you to the ground.
Your glazed look will scare people on the subway.
Staring at your ceiling for two hours does not do productive things, especially when doing so at night. In your living room.
Crying while watching Zebraman makes sense. Because it is heroic.
You know what? No—crying while watching Zebraman makes perfect sense, depression or not.
You think about very bad things.
Everyone feels like shit!
Everyone also has already had one friend of theirs kill themselves.
"Suicide is Painless" isn’t that convincing about suicide, but it forces you to watch M*A*S*H again.
M*A*S*H was much better than I remembered.
The entire Presidential process really isn’t that relevant.
Your thousand yard death stare freaks out children. (Note: Keep doing this.)
The bags under your eyes are like a mood ring for the soul.
You sit in your bathroom for 45 minutes while all the hot water is used up re-reading the same New Yorker fiction piece about a new age healer who just fucks with women. And you comprehend it.
You make fun of your ex-girlfriend a lot because she’s vegan and her new boyfriend is super vegan and together they will change the world.
Also, vegans are comedy gold.
The discount liquor store owners know your name.
You put on weight.
You listen to a lot of Murder by Death and the Smiths.
You can’t write.
You can’t follow through with creative things.
It takes three days to manage 700 words.
Nothing makes sense because you feel like you’re drowning.
Walking to the subway is like walking to get beaten up for eight hours.
Walking from the subway is like walking home after being beaten up for eight hours.
You’re convinced it will not get better.
Your hands shake.
You manage to almost bite off your thumb one day while on the phone.
You can’t talk to your parents without feeling like an utter failure.
You hope to God someone hits you with a car.
You intentionally get home after 3 am because you’ve heard other people were mugged in your neighborhood and are hoping for a fight.
You want to lose that fight.
You can’t muster up enough strength to plug in a Playsation 2 or turn on a handheld gaming system.
You don’t want to wake up.

And now that’s over. Whew.