Depressia [part 1]

Oh, crap. My usual I-don't-give-a-fuck mood is turning into I-just-wanna-slit-a-throat mood. Attractive, right? Not really. I look like a combo between Goth & Goth-er, if you get what I mean. I've been drinking coffee with rum for the past few hours and I still can't feel numb. I think it's just making me fat. Gotta lay off this shit, that's for sure.

I'm Depressia. Yep, with a name like that, no wonder I'm depressed. And no, my mother wasn't smoking pot when she gave it to me. At least, not at that moment. I think dad, oh sorry, I mean he-who-is-nowhere-to-be-found, must have come up with it on one of his out-of-body experiences. So, coming back to the most precious me, I'm a twenty-year-old ex-student, with a degree in fucking things up. Or just fucking them. Anyway, I don't have a job or a future. I only eat what's in labeled bottles and sleep during the day. My best friend (a forty-year-old homeless guy - don't laugh, we have a strong bond. Too bad he's gay, I would've asked him to be my roomie) says I'm the modern version of an alcohol-sucking vampire. Seriously, do I look tall, dark and... eh, beautiful?
Oh, fuck that (yes, I do say the f-word a lot. I think it's grown on me. I wouldn't mind if my name was Fuckia. Sounds exotic, right? That's what I thought too.). So, tonight was supposed to be just another very-common-and-alone-spent night. Well, not completely alone, I do have my cat with me. She's missing an ear, but I think it's part of her charm. I even got her tail pierced. So, like I said, it was one of those nights when I celebrated my retardyness (and if that isn't a word, it still applies perfectly to me). But unlike the other nights, it felt... wrong. More than it usually did. Depressia is in depression mode. Is that funny or what?

Sophisticated lies

Ten past eleven. The last hour as I would call it. How boring it seems to me. Or rather – how uninteresting. I never thought that as I grew out of childhood, the nearer my birthdays would be, the less enthusiastic I’d grow. I don’t feel as if I’m growing old and I don’t particularly care. My current life is under a heavy cloud of indifference and boredom. Perhaps, with a chance of ironic rain from time to time, but nothing spectacular.

I can never quite understand other people. Nor do I like them. Sure, they make an interesting study and I am still far too selfish not to want to help them. In fact, I should admit to never completely understanding myself. I often find myself questioning my own moods – are they really mine or am I just mirroring someone else? It confuses me a great deal.

To one conclusion I have come for sure: there is something of a chameleon in the human nature, or else, how would I be able to conform myself to such a multitude of situations? Nevertheless, I am a shallow being, I know that. The only thing I am afraid of is that others should discover this as well. They have yet to see through my coloured lies. They think of me as good on the inside when I am only cruel on the outside. Who is to blame for this? It’s a matter of common fault, I should say.

I have come to realize I do nothing for myself anymore. It is strange because at the same time, I do nothing for the others. I just meaninglessly continue to exist, strolling through a park of sophisticated nothings. Is this the true emptiness of the soul’s resignation? Although I wish to wake up, I am not chasing after the answer. I remain floating, floating over an abyss of dullness and shadows.