At the risk of sounding like an angst-ridden, mid-90's diva belting out the woes of love-sickness to a cowering microphone, I ask: how do I go on? My depression isn't love-related, but it's similarly crippling and every bit as devastating to my functionality. i have no emotional energy to deal with anything. i am ignoring text messages and phone calls from all but a few people. i haven't had the get-up-and-go to run big errands, like driving to pick up apples from Rittman Orchards for my roommates and I (it's an hour away, sure, but i'm driving, for pete's sake; it's not that difficult). i don't want to drink and i don't want to fuck, and i'm missing the moxie that ameliorates the difficulty of interacting with the world.

i've spent every evening since saturday night in my family's home out in the suburbs, wrapping myself up every night in the quiet of a tiny town. mom, dad, ann and tom are in florida until friday, so here i am, in my childhood room, staring at the same posters i stared at eight years ago. in the morning i will scrape snow and ice from the windshield of my little red car in the driveway.

life hasn't done anything but stagnate since coming home from Bowdoin, and yet i feel a shift this last year. suddenly i'm 25. suddenly i'm a semester away from finishing school. incredibly, i'm still broke, with little to recommend me on my resume. i have no boyfriend to boast at parties, and i have no creations to blame for my lack of relationships. i am ten pounds heavier. three weeks ago, i got a car. i waste a lot of space and i waste a lot of time.

i hope i find the spunk and spirit to fix my life. i feel rather like a wet washcloth, slung limply over the side of a bathtub. drip, lazy drip, cooling fast.