Too Bad, So Sad

Here are two things that most people don’t know about me:

First, I can tap dance. Actually, I’m not that good at it, although, I can “Shuffle off to Buffalo” like a motherfucker.

Second, I suffer from depression. I know, me and half of the people on the planet, right? Boring. That’s why I don’t talk about it. Nobody cares. I don’t even care, which, I believe, is a symptom of depression.

I don’t know that for sure because I didn’t go to medical school. However, I did learn a thing or two during my year and a half of junior college, which I went to on a dance scholarship, hence the tap dancing.

At least I’m not one of those depressed people who are on medication. Good grief, those people with their meds and the side effects like the spinal overgrowth and the bloody discharge. Nice. That’s who you want at your party.

Here’s an idea: instead of screwing up your body with crazy chemicals, how about dealing with it the old-fashioned way, as I do? Try staying in bed for three days while you ponder killing yourself, knowing you can’t because God will get mad at you and it will make your mom cry.

So you lie there in the dark with the covers over your head, just you and your own stink (because you haven’t showered in seventy-two hours), hoping someone will break in and end it for you.

And then one day, you just wake up and feel normal again. The sun will be shining, the birds will be singing, and you’ll think, “Man, I could fuck up a cheeseburger right about now.”

And then…life goes on.

4 thoughts on “Too Bad, So Sad

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  1. Love this. I just had the longest conversation with my best friend last night about this very topic. I had been hiding it from her for twenty some odd years and I only told her because she said her daughter is showing signs of depression. Funny how we don’t want to talk about it, I’m loathing myself right now just writing this response. I say fuck it, own it. My chemicals ain’t right in my body ….so yeah, I get pretty pathetically low. At least I can laugh about it . Just shut the fuck up you dipshits (not you, Becky) all the other Mother F$;&£>s


  2. Today of all days, I can’t help but wonder if this is the common thread shared by all comedians. I get sad, but I’m not sure I’ve ever been depressed. Nor I’m not sure at what point of low I would have to reach to know that I’ve been broken to the point that I need to make other people laugh because I’m not able to do it for myself. I adore your trade and the people who transact it. I would love to break my mold and find myself absorbing laughter I caused, but worry about what manner of baptism required to trigger being laughed at and knowing that you’re not being laughed with.


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