I've been having a Nina Simone kind of day, dear reader. Listening to her on my iPod after a visit to my GP, she tells me when I'm feeling real low, there's a great truth I should know. When you're young, gifted and black, your soul's intact. Oh, to be young, gifted and black, dear reader! Furthermore, I might have no mind, but I have got life. And boobs.
What have I got? Why am I alive anyway?
Thought for the day: don't smoke in bed.
I've been having a hard time since before Christmas, dear reader. Depression is like a weight bearing down, so heavy, I sometimes feel squashed. Comedic sensibilities aside, I sometimes feel like the Coyote from the Roadrunner cartoon. His attempt to kill that fucking bird has once more gone horribly wrong. The boulder has landed on him and he's flat on his back holding a mammoth rock.
The past few days have been more a din than a crescendo. Without the support of the best people on the face of the earth, I don't really know where I'd be today. There's not enough gratitude in my person or words in my vocabulary in order for me to express my thanks. That which has been saved is owed.
So, today, Minge took a trip to the GP. I'm referred to a cognative behavioural therapist and prescribed copious amounts of Prozac. Yum. My brains, dear reader, are about to be scrambled. Once more.
Don't look for me.
Which version of Ain't Got No/I Got Life is best, dear reader? The original version or Groovefinder's version?
It's official. I'm a mental. I need some poppies.
Maybe leather and studs is where you're at.