If a cow ever got the chance...

This is how hot my apartment is right now: the coconut oil in my closet has completely liquefied. And I suspect the closet is the coolest part of my apartment. I'm sitting here with the windows propped open watching Godfather II with the sound turned down. My piercing was bleeding a while ago but now it seems OK. It's almost dark.

I think I'm not going to write in here for awhile. I said I would only write happy perky entries this week but I can't do it. Feeling disintegrated. Having the standard debate with myself that I have EVERY FUCKING TIME I go on antidepressants (and that's been like five times). Do I really want to medicate myself? Am I really depressed or am I just a boring irritating pessimistic person? Why do I have to take these fucking pills to feel like I have skin when I'm out on the street, or to feel like I can look at or talk to my coworkers or god forbid have any friends that I don't have to avoid in case they invite me out somewhere? It's like, what the hell is wrong with me that I have a better life than like 98% of the people on the planet and I just want to sit in my apartment with the shades drawn? Fuck it. I'll take the pills and I'll feel sort of normal for six months (meaning that once a month or so I'll actually leave the apartment after 5 p.m., but I'll drink way too much and be home by 9:30) and then I'll forget what this, now, feels like and stop taking the meds, and in a month or so I'll turn into this person, evidence of whom you see before you, who can go for a week without saying anything above a mumble and is afraid of the neighbors. Every fucking time.

Guess I'll call the doctor tomorrow. Maybe Paxil this time. I wish they weren't pink though; Wellbutrin is much prettier.

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