“So, the conference is in Boston?”
“Yes.”
“And I live in Boston.”
“Obviously.”
“I just want to verify once again that you want to put me up in a five-star hotel three miles away from my house, and pay for my meals and transportation so I can attend a conference in the building in which my actual office is.”
“Indeed!”
“I’m not going to ask twice!”
Guys, I asked twice. Maybe three times. I mean, last year, my company set me up at the Taj, which used to be the Ritz, which is an even fancier hotel than the Westin I stayed at this weekend, but I was sick the whole time and it didn’t count. I mean, I love staying in hotels. Nice hotels. Fancy hotels with soaps in the shape of leafs (which, b t dubs, do not turn me into a tanooki when I unwrap them; whatevs, Westin). Quite a lot of my life has been desperately wanting to have the means in which to live as a fancy gentleman, which is obviously why I chose to pursue writing hard-to-classify novels as a passion. Now, thanks to the soulless faceless one percenters, I get to pretend I’m rich and get my Starbucks paid for without climbing the corporate ladder all that high. Thanks, America!
How’s the depression, no one asked? You know, it’s depression. Wanna hear something weird? When I was at the Drive-By Truckers show, I was having a blast, an absolute blast, but I found myself not connecting as fully or as deeply as I usually do. My whole self wasn’t given over. And it wasn’t the band or the people I was with. The part of me that feels everything awesome all the time seems to be … not in hibernation, but in intermittent hiding. Looking back at the show, I keep remembering a time or five when things finally hit me. I was here. This was real. I was happy. And I screamed or shouted or cried or danced, and lived my full self in those moments. Then it flipped away. This happens sometimes in my every day life, but when it happens during big moments or important times (like when it happens at Disney World), it’s the most frustrating. I want to be in it, and I can’t, and it’s like wanting to run with two broken ankles.
But it’s getting better, always better. With my work conference so close to my home, I’ve been able to have my cake and eat it too, except that I haven’t had any cake since January 6th and I might have to murder someone for a fucking slice of Duncan Hines (seriously; there were trail mix bars at the meetings and, oh yeah, piles of candy I can’t even, and I wouldn’t allow myself the ones with chocolate in them. I AM GOING TO PUNCH A BABY KITTEN.) Shawn came over on Tuesday and we had snuggle times, then I went out to karaoke last night and killed “Solsbury Hill” and “Sex On Fire.” (PS the night might have had its own triggers, but what the fuck, I’m going to acknowledge my brain weirdness, but I don’t have to be a slave to all of it). Back to the gym today and launched into some article writing, with a few hours set aside for the novel later tonight.
I think a part of me firmly believes that my depression will just evaporate if I have some goddamned cookies, but I’ve come this far, and if a part of this is withdrawal, then I’m going to shake until it’s over. I’ve got a Month of No Starbucks coming up in March and if I’m going to survive, I need to make a stand somewhere. I’m tempted to laugh at myself regarding my stupid addictions, but even though it’s not, like, meth, this still feels real.
Wow, this was supposed to have a whole theme and through-line and it so does not. Next time. Now I’ve got other stories to write.
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