So as expected, today I've landed squarely in depression. I sat up until about 3:00 am last night, writing in my journal, drinking and smoking. My mind was going to some places where I don't really like to let it roam too often ... thoughts about me, burning questions like "what's wrong with me?" and "am I fundamentally unlovable?", thoughts of suicide, thoughts of being forgotten -- and of being invisible already. All in all, not a happy place to be. And I thought about that quote from the Veruca Salt song Disconnected: "It's astounding what love can do to a city." I thought about how that line rattled around in my head as he drove us home from the beer distributor on Saturday night, how I looked at the streets and the houses and everything seemed to be painted with some stroke of magic, and about how now the city looks to me the way it usually looks: grey and colorless, vacant and empty. Like so many rats, just searching for survival. I also thought about Katharine Hepburn, telling Jimmy Stewart that she thought all writers "drank to excess and beat their wives," and I wondered if I needed this constant stream of tragedy and disappointment to fuel my writing, meager though it is. Tell me, was I half as interesting to read when I was happy? Or are you glad to have my adjective-laden depression posts back again?