Four

For the record, I wasn’t always a depressed douchebag. Really, if you’d only known me a year ago. But you don’t have to like me. I don’t.

    I could take you back, before the depression hit, before the negativity corrupted my otherwise happy soul, but truthfully, I can’t really remember when that was. Sure, there’ve been brief interludes of joy and optimisim. Momentary lapses of anger, cracks in the cynicism. But when I look back to those moments I’m struck by an overwhelming sense of shame. I scold the naive boy who thought that his dad will follow through on yet another promise. I berate the fucking idiot who thought a new job would mean a better life. I try to silence the voice that says anything is possible. And yes, I curse the cancer and the God who didn’t give it to me, but rather the last person who ever deserved it 

   We could go there, but we won’t. Not yet.