When you’re down and depressed, and you haven’t even been able to speak to your honey for the last couple of days because of work issues, and your inner Captain Paranoia is getting the better of you and convincing you that the reason he hasn’t responded to your attempts at contacting him are because he is fed up with you, and you feel lower than a snakes hips, so you decide to try and alleviate the mood with music, do not, I repeat do NOT play Pink Floyd.
You start off with the song “Wish You Were Here”, because, well, duh, and then you progress to “Dark Side of the Moon”, an album with which you are so familiar that you not only know every word, sniff, cough and crackle, but can also imitate all the “Oh-ho-whoa-oh-waaaaaaaahs” of the woman in the instrumental part of the titular track in the shower to great effect, and with the added bonus of pissing off your bitch queen of a neighbour in the upstairs apartment.
And all this does for your mood, my good people, is to make you even more fucking depressed than you were before.
Take it from me, I have been around the block once or twice in my life and I know my shit.
* This has been a public service announcement. We now return you to your regular program of introspection and well-written smut.
I know this may come as a revelation to you, but it shouldn’t. I’m not perfect. Try as I might, I’m not always able to control my temper or my mood. I am well-versed in the school of advanced neuroses, to the extent that I’m perfectly capable of inventing wild scenarios why you haven’t made contact at the time when a. i wanted you to or b. it seemed that you were available (for which the irrational subtext is to everyone else in the world but me goddamit).
Emotions are a bastard. Sure, it’s great when everything is on the up, and your hormones are doing the happy dance. That euphoric feeling of connection, the swelling of your heart with joy, the stars that magically appear in your eyes when he looks deep into them and then kisses you until your head spins and you lose sensation in your feet… ain’t nothing better. But from the high, so we also sink to the low — and the higher you were, the lower you fall.
Be sure to check your shoulders for detritus, most notably, that evil asshole, Captain Paranoia. That evil, twisted fucker is only out to make you squirm uncomfortably and make a fool of yourself. When you doubt, he smiles. When you think the worst, he rejoices. When you feel envy and jealousy cloud your better judgment and knowledge, he does a fucking happy dance.
The antidote? Well, a return to reality and maturity, for starters. Deep breaths and count to ten. No one will say something adorable to you and then consider ending things no less than ten minutes later. Try and remember that the rollercoaster ride is in your head, and the reality, difficult enough though it is to envisage through a mist of poisoned thought, is far more simple, straightforward and infinitely more positive.
Take it from me, the original neurotic. Fo’ shizzle.