Depression Talk

I watched an old episode of Grey’s Anatomy tonight, an episode that made me want to lay in my bed weeping and clinging with every bit of my might to something warm and soft, something that would gaze at me with loving eyes; the type of glance that can cure everything that ails you in the quiet seconds between blinking.

Unfortunately, I am single and my cat hates me. Not that its unfortunate that I’m single, or that its unfortunate that my cat hates me… just sometimes it would be nice to have what ails me cured by the glances that can occur in the quiet seconds between blinking.

So rather than go off in search of somethign that would gaze quietly at me, I decided to open a can of Coke. Diet Coke, even. But before I opened the can, I had to get it out of the case, and I have to stop here and wonder WHAT IS WITH THE COKE COMPANY AND THEIR INDUSTRIAL STRENGTH CARDBOARD CASES?

Now, I wouldn’t classify this as actual anxiety, but really. I couldn’t get the damn thing opened, and it was hurting my chewed-to-the-quick fingernails with its industrial strength toughness. So I did the only thing I could think of because DAMMIT I WANTED SOME DIET COKE. (Actually, I wanted real Coke. But that is neither here nor there.)

So I did the only rational thing I could think of doing: I looked for a large, sharp implement. That implement came in the form of kitchen scissors.

And while I was standing in the kitchen, being showered by Diet Coke and trying to keep it from my eyes, while my mother yelled in horror to put it in the sink, you Ninny! …

Well, I thought for a brief moment that perhaps it is unfortunate that I didn’t decide to curl up with my cat, forcing her unfriendly, biting-prone self into a furball beside my pillow because if I had done that?

The Diet Coke would have never been sprayed about the entire kitchen.

Amanda