Commentary and Philosophy Non-Fiction posted January 1, 2021

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Depression and coffee pots.

Happy, ehhh, New Year

by zeezeewriter

The author has placed a warning on this post for language.

Happy New Year!" She said, like she really meant it.

"Yeah, sure," I said, halfheartedly and hoped she didn't catch my total lack of enthusiasm.

Once again we march into a New Year--as if there really is such a thing.

I've caught up on most of my Facebook feeds. Well wishes, kind words, and hopeful outlooks abound. And, here I sit without enough energy to butter toast...much less think about what can or will happen THIS year.

I think this must be how someone on death-row feels as he rips off the month of December from his 2020 calendar, wads it in a ball, and eats it. "Wow, another day closer to the big event! Can I get some salt?"

I'd like to blame Covid 19 for 2020, but it was just the icing on a turd filled cake. My own personal-single serve cake. Not to be shared with others. Hopefully.

On a bright note: I bought a new coffee pot. I'm buying a lot of things these days. Something to look forward to. Something to occupy my TIME. I tried to set the TIMER on it. January 1, I'd wake up to fresh brewed coffee. A small pleasure, one sip at a TIME.

Apparently I failed in my attempt to set the TIMER. I wasn't even disappointed. It is a great way to start my new year. So, I hit START and waited for my new coffee pot to brew my small pleasure. It tasted weak. Sort of like me.

Fitting, somehow. Like the coffee pot knows me and decided to give me a reality check on New Years Day.

This is what depression looks like from the inside looking out.

They used to call it Melancholy. Truthfully, I like that name better. Sounds a bit more dramatic. "She's depressed" doesn't have enough je ne sais quoi to describe my life-long affliction.

In ancient times Melancholy was attributed to too much black bile--whatever that is. Sounds kind of disgusting.

Not to say that I am not filled with black bile. Perhaps I am. That would at least give me something to blame, other than own fuck-up brain.

Possible scene in my ongoing life drama.

I call my doctor and listen to 4 minutes of "Listen to our new menu. 1. If you are bleeding, dial 911...etc," Finally someone answers the phone. She sounds as if she has been crying. I want to feel sorry for her, but I'm too busy feeling sorry for myself. She puts Doctor on the phone.

"What's your problem and make it snappy. I have real patients to tend to." He says in his most delightful tone.

"Doctor, do you have anything for Black Bile syndrome?" I ask while lighting up a Marlboro 100.

"Take two Tylenol and call me after the pandemic, you sniveling piece of shit!" He says, and hangs up on me.

Just one possible scene. I could write others.

And, let's be honest, my mental illness has served me well. How else could I sit at a keyboard and crank out such misery?

Back to the coffee pot: I really like it. It serves two purposes--single cup and carafe. One appliance versus two on my small counter space. That black tray underneath it slides the unit out from under the cabinets. Slick as a whistle. I recommend you buy one. (The tray not the coffee pot.)

See, and you thought this would be a totally depressing post. Pffft!

Happy New year...(Said as if I really mean it.)

Personal feelings as we roll over into a new adventure.
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