I'm actually quite content today
From time to time I think maybe I should see a pychiatrist because sometimes I consider throwing myself in front of a city bus. The only reason I have yet to roll infront of one is because I think I might survive and be worse off. I'd wind up a quadriplegic with no chance to kill myself. Quadraplegic and can't move their arms to even smother themyselves with a pillow.
I know wouldn't be one of those cheery quadriplegics that "60 Minutes" features on a Sunday evening. You know those quads who beat all odds after their accident and open up a tea house or win the gold medal in looshing (i can't spell the sport people you know sledding)-- inspiring the walking and talking to start that garden they always dreamed of. Yeah, that's not me. And my feature story would piss people off. "Over-priveliged bitch! What are you complaining about? I live in a trailer." The better option would be to swallow some sort of pill and many of them. Unfortunately, I can't swallow pills which makes me think maybe my heart just isn't into death. That's the thing though when I'm depressed I really have no desire to do anything. I'm totally a type B depressive. Meanwhile, Elliot Smith was type A. He got shit done. He took a knife and stabbed himself in the heart. That sounds painful. I think instead maybe I should jump off a bridge or something. But then I think jumping off a bridge requires getting out of bed, putting my sneakers on, tying my sneakers, leaving the house and walking to the bridge. Ugh! I'll just sleep and pretend there's a god.
That's when I start to think maybe I should get therapy. But everyone in New York goes to therapy and none of them are better. I know a girl who has been going for 9 years and she's still friggin' crazy. I know people who are on meds and barely function. I might as well take that money I'd spend on a therapist and go to a bar.
I know wouldn't be one of those cheery quadriplegics that "60 Minutes" features on a Sunday evening. You know those quads who beat all odds after their accident and open up a tea house or win the gold medal in looshing (i can't spell the sport people you know sledding)-- inspiring the walking and talking to start that garden they always dreamed of. Yeah, that's not me. And my feature story would piss people off. "Over-priveliged bitch! What are you complaining about? I live in a trailer." The better option would be to swallow some sort of pill and many of them. Unfortunately, I can't swallow pills which makes me think maybe my heart just isn't into death. That's the thing though when I'm depressed I really have no desire to do anything. I'm totally a type B depressive. Meanwhile, Elliot Smith was type A. He got shit done. He took a knife and stabbed himself in the heart. That sounds painful. I think instead maybe I should jump off a bridge or something. But then I think jumping off a bridge requires getting out of bed, putting my sneakers on, tying my sneakers, leaving the house and walking to the bridge. Ugh! I'll just sleep and pretend there's a god.
That's when I start to think maybe I should get therapy. But everyone in New York goes to therapy and none of them are better. I know a girl who has been going for 9 years and she's still friggin' crazy. I know people who are on meds and barely function. I might as well take that money I'd spend on a therapist and go to a bar.
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