So I'm at a bar that I sometimes frequent (when I go there, I seem to go there frequently, and then not for months) this past Friday, and a "friend" (a bar acquaintance - I could tell you a lot about him, but not his last name) says hello and we talk for a while. Well, he didn't really say hello, it was actually:
"Hey, Doom and Gloom! What's up?"
"Hey Ed! Doom and Gloom? What's that?
"That's your nickname. You're always so depressed, it picks me up to know someone's always way more bummed than me."
(ahem)
Mind you - this is a guy who's six years younger than me, and has serious respiratory problems. The guy who can make his lungs GURGLE is calling me Debby Downer. What the fuck!? Of course, I often see him on karaoke night, a night that would make Job order the hemlock, so maybe he thinks my Cowell-like commentary represents my world view, and not just my view of the people who ravage forty years of popular music every week. But I don't think so.
It's funny, but this conversation about how he thinks I'm depressing has made me incredibly depressed. (I guess that's more ironic than funny) I think. It could be menstrual, but I don't think so. I have since had a completely miserable weekend, where I was constantly trying to monitor my outward behavior, but still found time to lose my temper with a co-worker and eat Dunkin Donuts for the first time in a dog's age.
So I don't quite know what to do. I'm going to give this a couple more days to see if this black cloud leaves me, but my real concern is that this guy might be right. That I've been one giant fucking bummer for the last four years. It would explain a ton.
Is my biting and ever-present sarcasm a defense mechanism? A window to a black heart? Or just a charming gift from a loving mother?
I dunno - I've always thought of it as a way to display some intelligence, and that those who appreciated it were just other smart people seeing a kindred spirit. I never suspected they might be just be gravitating to me to feel better about themselves, cause I was a drinking talking before model for Zoloft.
But Don't Cry For Me Argentina, I could be sick or stupid, and what fun would that make me?
Now I'm going to curl up in bed in a fetal ball with some International House Coffee on my nightstand. not that I drink coffee.
Seriously - read something else if you want. This is just me doing some text therapy.
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