I’ll pretend it is Sunday night and I’ve just had the most fulfilling day of weed pulling and hole digging and muddy shoes and mosquito bites.
Should I count the number of times the ugly feeling washes through me? When will that Effexor kick in? But I don’t seem to cry anymore. I wonder if you can call this numbness.
I’m at home again. My third full week of no work. I’ve decided that this will be a week of great accomlishments. I will finish my television pilot, Stuart Salts. I will rework my romantic comedy, The Pet Diaires of Molly Daniels. I will submit my thriller, Ivy Girls, to the Austin screenwriting competition and the Nicholl. I will apply for at least three jobs that seem to be somewhat better than my current depressing job. And I will plant another garden by the side of the house–the sunny side.
Tonight is the series finale of Once and Again, my favorite show. Another chapter of my life will close. What depressed teenagers will I relate to now?
I turn 28 in exactly 23 days. I hope I get a coconut cake, at least.
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