There’s a strange solace whenever depression strikes. Like that familiar yet sordid taste of swallowing a pill dry and trying not to choke on its irony. People think I want my depression to stop. That I want to be happy. The thing is, happiness is just some absurd concept that companies created for consumers to buy into. I don’t need happiness. I don’t need much. I just need people to stop asking

“are you ok?”

“are you feeling alright?”

“what’s wrong”


when they really don’t care for a true answer.


Being forced to interact with these wastes of space is as painful as Chinese water torture. Even if you think being left alone in a room by myself, contemplating the benefits of suicide over the necessities of sustaining human life seems like a fucking insane way to go about my day, it brings me calm. Peace. Like an old friend.

Hello depression.

My old, old friend.

Being depressed has its baggage, but I rather soak in my own misery—my own comfortable realm of pain and gloom—then take a chance on some romanticized real world that clearly doesn’t exist for people like me.

I am the king of despair. The emperor of self loathing.

Existence is futile. I just let go and let the SS Depression carry me along until I arrive at death.


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