So, I'm still fucking depressed.

Suicide

There are three completely different conversations with three completely different people within the span of one week, and all mention the s-word in passing. The other participants laugh and shake their heads.
Someone is trying to send a message to you, but you're not fucking laughing.

Drinking Fails

Screw you, world, you decide, and plan to spend your nights in dissolute, wretched-glorious inebriation. After all, you've stayed squeaky clean for a goddamned quarter of a century—hell, one vice might add character.
That night, you could barely finish the bottle.

Surfing

You are soothed, alternatively, by pictures of squishy animals, and tales of blood and gore. It makes for a strange browsing history, but hey, bitch, they all think you're a fucking loon anyway.

Profanity

MOTHERFUCKING SHITHEAD JACKASS DOUCHEBAG CUMGUZZLER SLUTWHORE BITCHES.
Nope. Screaming all the curses in the sanctity of your apartment doesn't help. You've checked.

Glue

Your holidays were spent in isolation, and honestly, half of you preferred it that way. For the rest of the time, you focused your latest “work of art,” slowly stroking the acrylic into the canvas, cutting other people's trash into itty bitty triangles, contorting your body into easel-like positions.
If tears mixed in with the glue, no one should be able to tell.