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One minute you were just reading The Soul of an Octopus, and the next you were filled with this exhausting, overwhelming sense of melancholy. Except…melancholy feels sort of stupid to say. You’re just…down. You’re just…sad. You’re just…well, depressed. And it’s a feeling that you’re all too familiar with but there’s no conceivable reason WHY you should be feeling this way. Which is frustrating because you just read a great quote, that said, “If you took the monsters’ point of view, everything they did made perfect sense. The trick was learning to think like a monster.” But your depression is a monster that can’t be made sense of and it’s an entity that doesn’t contain any logic. It just is. So you sit there, annoyed at yourself and your brain for feeling this way after an absolutely lovely weekend and just wish that there was any reason at all for you to feel this way, but there’s not and it suck suck suckitty suck suck sucks. And then you walk to the fridge and just stare at the bottles of wine inside of it. But you’re not going to drink them because you’re “being healthy” and “trying to not exasperate your problems” and “taking your advice” whatever the fuck that might mean. So you drink water, tea, and go for a walk. You look at the people out, having a last happy hour before the work week starts and wonder what it’s like to actually want to talk to another human being and have something to talk about that doesn’t revolve around ennui and existential dread. You look at yourself in the mirror after your walk, sweatpants, messy hair, a zit appearing you’re just sure wasn’t there before and just resent yourself for being like this, for thinking this way. You flop back down on the couch because you don’t even have the motivation to put sheets back onto your bed. It’s been sheet-less for three days. That’s what depression looks like; an inability to get the sheets the 400 ft. from the dryer to back on the bed. So you’re on the couch instead, hating everything, feeling like everything is pointless. And since everything is pointless, this little glass of wine won’t hurt, right? Because depression isn’t a monster you’re ever going to understand, which means your own advice is probably not something to be trusted.