Created with Microsoft Fresh PaintI am being held hostage. By my brain. By my culture. By my writing. By my sorrow. By Ann Patchett not liking me. By Justin Bieber’s dick. Read on.

I am writing again. But it is an entirely new project. One that would not go away. One that would not leave me alone despite my insistence I had no interest in an ENTIRELY NEW PROJECT. But it keeps nagging me. Waking me. Pieces. In different shapes, looking for its truth. Like the following first draft, unpolished efforts:

He had been unhappy for so long.

Or ought it to be:

So long had he been unhappy.

Or, wait, don’t state it, show it. As in:

It hadn’t been until the week of that third death when that bitch (a word he would eventually stop using, recognizing the sexist, misogynistic poison of it, but, which, by that point in his life, he had not yet exiled to the list including the N, C, and F words) of a theatre manager told him she’d always thought of him as Eeyore that he realized how hard deep relentless depleting was his unhappiness. So much so, it seemed, it had somewhere along the line begun to define him.

Perhaps that is too far back in his history and it should be more immediate? As in:

He was busted trying to buy the pills with which he intended to kill himself the week after he realized Ann Patchett would never be his friend. She’d said in an interview that during one’s maturity, at a certain age and stage of life, one didn’t have the energy for new friendships with damaged, depleting people. It certainly wasn’t Ann Patchett’s fault. It was that he had failed to become the sort of person who would be attractive to the sort of person he had once wanted to become, which made him unattractive to himself, unattractive and someone for whom he no longer had the energy to deal: Too much damage. Too much depletion. Too little chance Ann Patchett or her ilk would ever. So, he went to CraigsList to buy the pills. He should have known better, having already ended up both bloodied in a parking lot and in need of antibiotics from CraigsList adventures.  But surely drugs were an easier score? Apparently not, he failed at scoring drugs as miserably as he’d failed to score mindless sex with inappropriately younger men of porn-like endowment who’d play Nick Gruber to his Calvin Klein. Although, he noted with something closer to a smile than he’d experienced in weeks, both had involved handcuffs.

You see where this is going? I’ve been

really trying to work on a light, mystery cozy with a charming middle-aged man and his best friend, a recently divorced middle-aged woman who had wanted to be an actress in the long ago and is now diving back into community theatre. They do shows and stumble upon murders together. Musical theatre murders. Well. Anyway.

I know a lot about musical theatre. I know more about depression.

I know a great many people who are unhappy. I know a great many people taking medication to treat their unhappiness. Some of those people are unhappy in ways that lead them (and others) to call themselves “depressed” and some have been called so by others, those others being culturally-approved professionals qualified to diagnose and validate anxiety disorders, clinical depression, and a myriad of alternate labels indicating chemical imbalance or emotional instability or some combination of both that require (or, allow?) mood altering medications.

So many people are depressed, it is in the news constantly. This article in the New York Times about how to treat depression [CLICK HERE] or this article in Vice about whether depression might be an allergic reaction [CLICK HERE]. I don’t know. Here’s what I think, depression is a perfectly sensible response to the world in which we live. Depression is a perfectly reasonable response to the conditions of many (most) lives. Depression is unsurprising given the berating tone of the self-help and Oprah-fied culture in which we live, this apotheosis of “happiness” and “self-fulfillment” and “authentic life” that renders most of us failed — and the remainder of us delusional.

Look, I have not climbed out of the spiral downward that happened over the holidays. It wasn’t the holidays, it was Leelah Alcorn killing herself by walking in front of that semi. It wasn’t just Leelah’s sorrow and desperate solitude; it was the hate filled, ignorance filled responses from her parents, and, worse, far, far worse, from people who ought to have known better — people from gay and liberal communities whose lack of understanding of basic humanity made me weep.

And then, the Republicans have taken the House and Senate. And Clinton and Bush are the best we can do? And Romney? Again? Romney? Really? And Charlie Hebdo.

And with ALL THAT going on in the world — Justin Bieber threatens legal action because someone said his body was photo-shopped in his Calvin Klein underwear ads?

After posted what they claimed was the un-Photoshopped version of Justin Bieber‘s Calvin Klein poster, which show considerable additions to the arms, back, abs, body hair and groin area (and amusingly, Calvin Klein shrank his head), Bieber’s legal team insisted that they take it down as a fake. The site complied, probably deciding it wasn’t worth the legal bills. The part I can’t get over is that Bieb’s team also had his trainer, Patrick Nilsson, put out a statement, not about the Bieb’s muscle mass, but about his groin. “I can definitely confirm that he is a well-endowed guy… I sound weird saying that, but yes.” I’ll just be over in the corner, giggling until it hurts. [CLICK HERE FOR TBL WEBSITE]

Really? It’s true, his trainer did actually say:

“I can definitely confirm that he is a well-endowed guy. I sound weird saying that, but, yes.” [Click here for link]

Who could make this shit up? And how does one NOT get depressed in the face of a world where this is covered? I mean, here I am, Eeyore, unable to hope for friendship with Ann Patchett, spending my morning blogging about Bieber-dick and photo-altering and … Yeah. And, uhm, Calvin Klein and inappropriately-young men in underwear and their endowments in my fiction and my Twitter TL. And, I am NOT the sort of person I once wanted to become. Because, honestly, that tatted-up, ignorant, inappropriately young, ass-hat fool and his well-endowed self is JUST the kind of idiot I have always wasted Eeyore energy on. Which is why Ann Patchett should NOT be my friend. She’s right.

So, yes, I am depressed.

A hostage. To something. Alas, no cuffs. And no endowments. Of any variety. Damn the luck. Or, should that be damn the lack? And a riff on endowments as in cash to hide-away somewhere and write? Or. . . oh crap . . . SHUT UP BRAIN SHUT UP NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOU . . .