Depression

If depression were a houseguest, it'd be a ruthlessly polite one. It warns you ahead that it's coming, it doesn't take up all your time and it even lets you work (some of the time).

But when you come home, it's still there. And it gets into bed with you and buggers you silly.

And you don't know why the hell it's come knocking. Oh, okay, maybe there's some direct influences (say an actor called you up to criticise you directly for aspects of your writing you can't control, or none of the young men who purport to be interested in you are ever actually available on a Saturday night, suggesting that they were never that into you to begin with).

But even when the majority of things in your life are going right - even when you've got every other reason to clap your hands and say hallelujah - it's there. And you would very much like to politely step out of its way and die.

I've become obsessed with the miracle fruit. Have you heard of it? It's a West African berry that contains an active glycoprotein molecule that masks your tongue's sour taste buds. Which means that within half an hour of eating it, ever sour thing you eat tastes great. An account online says that it makes limes taste like lime candy. Every time I've seen a lime, or any other citrus fruit since then, I think lime candy.

I was at the Jendela gallery at the Esplanade today - caught Tim Etchells' short films which were part of the M1 Fringe Festival, final showing - and I ended up pouring out my woes to the beautiful young volunteer gallery sitter there, an IT kid between jobs, pale blue T-shirt and white scarf and retro specs and floppy hair. I realised I didn't have anything to lose, and I asked him if he might be free to watch a play sometime if I had comps - which I've been doing with all my friends lately, being such a review-maniac. The kid said sure, we exchanged numbers.

His handphone had his girlfriend's face on it. So much for my dar. His name was Zahir, anyway - being the Borgesian boy that I am, I should've smelt trouble.

I really am fantastically lonely these days. I thought I'd weaned myself off my desperate days of unrequited love in university, but despair just resurfaces, fuck it. I like my body but I know it's not as attractive as it used to be, and I still don't know the first thing about dating and having relationships.

I don't hate my life, but I do hate how I'm such a slave to random self-generated chemicals in my bloodstream. Eventually it'll all go away. Till then, maybe Xanax?