It seems depression likes hanging out with me, right next to me, poking and prodding.
I've tried the different techniques to avoid it.
Don't eat blue foods.
Don't watch the news.
The "Don't watch the news" is good advice anyways.
The news ranges from Miley Cyrus dancing naked with a bison dealer to President Obama wanting to invade Syria for their cottage cheese.
I'm guessing the why on that.
I mean why else would you invade a country?
Pants from 1970s?
And in that case, wouldn't it be better to invade Cuba?
I didn't know what to do.
Someone told me I should paint the night.
JASON PAINTS THE NIGHT. GOES BLIND. KILLS THOUSANDS WHILE TRYING TO FIND THE LIGHT SWITCH!
Depression sucks, it can kill.
Here I sit, drinking a soda with no calories, no sugar, and no taste.
Stupid doctors putting me on a diet! PFFFT!
Why would I want to live longer just so I can drink diet soda and contemplate suicide with a blender?
People seem to like to live longer, so they can end up in a nursing home, if they're lucky, drooling, head slung low as they move their wheel chair towards death.
"Please kill me!!" a lady across the hall from Pop says. I shake my head.
"Sorry, according to the law, you got to live! LIVE WOMAN! LIVE!!"
She goes back into her room to watch Reba on the Hallmark Channel.
"There! Everything going to be alright!" I tell her.
Depression has made me look at the world in a different way. It tells me, "Hey Jason! Miley Cyrus makes millions dancing in her underwear! How much do you make doing that?"
I hate depression. It's a bad feeling, can't explain it to someone who is smiling at you, telling you to have a happy day.
Apparently it's against the law to strangle such a person.
It shouldn't be.
I write and a few people listen, nod their heads and I go ponder the stars once more, maybe an meteoroid will fall out of the sky and strike me dead.
"Nah! You're not that lucky!" God snickers from above.