That’s right, I started taking an anti-depressant. I took a break from cutting myself and writing in a sad handwritten book, called my journal, to be proactive about being happy. This isn’t my first roller coaster when it comes to consuming happy pills, but it has been a while. A few years ago I decided that I’d curve my depression by running and eating healthily, and while I do agree with those tactics to combat my darkness, I needed a little boost. It has been about a week and things seem to be looking up.
Just yesterday I got told I looked like Ryan Gosling by the Chilli’s hostess. You may be thinking “Well Garrett, that is a wonderful compliment.” It is a great compliment, but I thought she was talking about Jon Gosling. You know, from Jon & Kate Plus 8? The thing is, I smiled and thanked her for her observation. I very quickly accepted my resemblance to the strange looking puffy man, while not thinking of ways to off myself; I considered it a victory. It wasn’t until I got into my vehicle that I realized who she was actually referring to. Winning.
I was later knocked back down to Jon Gosling range when a random woman in the courthouse wouldn’t stop giving me dirty glances. After a snippy verbal exchange I concluded that she was jealous of my looks. Sometimes it’s hard to be so good looking. Imagine being good looking and funny. It’s almost a handicap for normal human interactions; that’s why I’m so weird. Okay, Okay. Obviously the Zoloft is doing its job. It will eventually work so well that I will be a nice constant shade of grey. One could only be so lucky.
I do think I’m attractive in a “good thing your skinny & somewhat funny” kind of way. I would say I’m of “normal” attractiveness, which I get from my father. To me, no offense dad, I always just thought of my dad as normal looking. But apparently there are some old women out there that wouldn’t mind climbing him like a tree, sorry mom. So, thanks for the genetics, dad. Since we are on the topic to genetics, I also got my depression, or “chemical imbalance” from my dad. So, yeah, thanks for that too. I’d also like to make a random note regarding moisturizing. To the 3 people that read this blog, if any of you are male, hear this: moisturize your face and behind your ears. Nothing creeps me out more than looking at a middle-aged man, with a middle-aged face, rock massive wrinkles behind their ears. It takes maybe two more seconds to cover that area with lotion. When you’re in your forties getting your first divorce and having to compete with other middle-aged men, if you listen to this simple advice you will likely lay the chick first. Trust me, even a really fucked up one with daddy issues. Wrinkles are gross. Avoid them at all costs.
As witnessed above Zoloft does weird things to me, but hey, at least I’m not tightening that noose. I actually may be able to write in my blog instead of my journal now. Honestly, journals freak me out. I’m constantly reminding myself who the audience is. It’s me, by the way. I’m the audience. But I can’t help but envision my nephew’s great-granddaughter coming across her long lost gay relative and publishing a depressing novel based on my journals. I want her to get a good idea of what my struggles are like. So, in the event of my untimely death please don’t think I lived a super, super, tortured life. It’s theatrics for the very distant future when I become infamous in death. That’s merely all I’m striving for, infamy in death.