Multiple meanings for that these days, as you’ll eventually see.
If there’s ever a movie written of my life, it’s going to be a lot of stuttering and masturbation, followed by a slow, tortuous breakdown in front of a computer.
I know it was a shittier time, but past generations had such grand adventures; our life is so regimented now.
You must do this. You must do that.
There’s no time for peace. No time for quiet.
Where’s my goddamned quiet at?
No, I run, and run, and run, it all just runs me down.
Target: 1400 words
Written: 1823 words, novel: Bad Neighbours
Read: Prozac Nation, Elizabeth Wurtzel (I was excited to read this, thinking I might comiserate, but this is far less a description of depression, but rather narcissism using depression as its party mask. There's a point where she reaches true depression, I think, and there's a perfect description of it, which made me think, okay, finally, she understands, but then she does it all away with a drug, then spends the rest of the book bemoaning the fact that she did it before it was cool, like some pretentious alt-rock kid pissed off the little indie band they liked signed a deal with a major label. This book? Five percent depression, the rest about a real as the proverbial cut my wrist width-wise instead of lengthwise cry for attention. Disappointing.)
Comics: Fables 20-23
Music: World Container, The Tragically Hip