Imagine every morning as you wake up, someone takes a shit on your forehead.
Just as your eyes are crustily prying open and you waft into consciousness, a big wet turd greets you for the day. And instead of screaming in disgust and anger you just wipe it away routinely and proceed to the bathroom to brush your teeth. And every so often, scattered throughout the day, at random intervals, poop is flung from out of nowhere right in your face and you just have to pretend like it didn’t happen.
No one else around you is getting doody-bombed every hour so they can’t really relate. Whenever you try to confide in someone about the constant dooky-flingings, it just seems like whining to them.
That’s what depression is for me. An overwhelming sadness that washes over my body throughout my daily life. I could have a wonderful lunch with a friend, be feeling light-hearted and level, and suddenly without explanation the tide rolls in causing confusion and misery. Raping me in the feelings with a gangrenous dick of bitter hatred and shame.
It’s like a contradictory drill sergeant commanding me to waste my life in a toilet of angst.
I know that misery can turn into a self-righteous cycle wherein you lie in bed all day and make yourself sad again and again by embracing your depression as a kind of a character trait but please believe me when I say that I truly do not want to be a depressed person. I desperately want to be happy, or not even happy, just NOT DEPRESSED.
But I don’t have a say in the matter. Depression is like a voice-over written by somebody else. I plead and plead with the director to take out the fucking voice-over because it’s making the movie shitty. But he’s a hack who went to NYFA so he places narration over every boring scene in the annoying film of my life.
Sometimes my only choice is to embrace the depression. To melt into the quicksand and lie slothful in sadness. It’s like I’m wrestling with the devil until I just can’t anymore, so I pause the match so that the two of us can lie in bed together and watch the entire “Gay & Lesbian” section on Netflix.
I often struggle with figuring out if my depression is something that happens to me that I could eventually overcome, or if it’s just how my brain is wired. I can only hope it’s the former.
Here’s what my typical day consists of:
I wake up with the sun dripping golden dewdrops of light upon my freckled brow through the silken slits of my curtain.
I greet the morning like an old friend as I leap out of bed and swim through my morning routine. After I’m bewashed and beclothed, I exit my apartment and suck a big breath of Earth’s rich and life-giving air into my grateful lungs. I embark on my day with a skip in my step and a smile warming my face. Here I come, world!
A lovely little cafe shines in the near distance. As I gleefully hop towards it, I pass a decrepit hobo, urine-soaked and emitting an infernal stench, toxic as turpentine. I stop to pity the man with a condescending smirk and hand him a dime from the depths of my khaki pocket. He looks up at me with dead downtrodden eyes and in a perfunctory and monotone fashion utters, “God bless ya.”
I flash a smile and with the skip returning to my step I continue towards the cafe knowing that there truly is a God that shines his light of peace and goodness upon all of us.
In the cafe as I nibble at my dry leaf salad, I am approached by a tall slender man in sunglasses and a beret. He is a world-famous photographer and wishes to base his new series on my perfect face and body. He calls me his muse and begs that I allow him to photograph me. I say “Okay but you’ll have to work around my schedule”. He is extremely grateful as he bows to me and exits the cafe. I am stuffed after only two bites of my food and exit shortly thereafter. A wonderful meal.
I head over to the Random House headquarters where I churn out award-winning novels for an unspeakable amount of wealth and fame and respect. Today I am working on a story about a man who finds an ancient treasure in his son’s sandbox as a metaphor for the little things in life being what truly matters.
After a rewarding day of spouting life-affirming cliches onto the page, I yawn and look at the clock. 8 p.m.! It’s time to go to bed and go to sleep! A couple of the other novelists beg me to come out and drink with them but I tell them that I don’t need outside substances to make me happy. I’m content just to be me.
I walk back into my apartment feeling a great sense of accomplishment for the day. As I lie down in bed and drift off to sleep, my mind becomes a blank canvas for all the wonderful dream-beasts and childhood memories to paint with their essence. I am one with the universe.
Sometimes life’s kafkaesque bullshit becomes unbearably droll to a painful degree.
It’s difficult to get things done when you have to swim through a sea of invisible dragon intestines to accomplish anything within any kind of organized system.
Obvious examples would be the DMV, the post office, schools and universities, etc. But sometimes well-trusted systems fail in harmful and unexpected ways.
I got an upper respiratory infection over Christmas and felt like a pile of still-eroding sand. Every time I tried to speak I would sound like Harvey Fierstein and Tom Waits had a baby who was now gargling with salt.
I had gone to the pharmacy to pick up antibiotics and then slumped back into my ill stupor of hate and decay. There were 8 pills. I took one a day. By the 9th day I was still sick. In fact, I was worse. I felt like a slinky made of meat, rolling around in a sandbox.
The following day (two days after I had finished the full dose of pills) I received a call from my pharmacy:
“Mr. Nulman, have you taken the full dose of the antibiotics we gave you?”
“Yeah, so, it turns out that you were given the wrong pills.”
“Yeah, somebody accidentally switched your medication with someone else’s.”
“What have I been taking?”
STEROIDS. I was given steroids instead of antibiotics and yet hadn’t grown one muscle. On top of still feeling like a lumpy heap of garbage under a sun lamp, I had just basically been farted on.
After I had finally gotten better and was no longer hallucinating about demon vaginas queefing on my fragile, gay body in the night, I had come to the realization that my boyfriend, who was home for the holidays the entire time, had no longer wished to be in a relationship with me but decided to go the high school route and instead of telling me, just stopped talking to me.
My spirit had been broken, my singing voice diminished, and my trust for organizations, corporations, and just other people in general had now diminished to an almost non existent point.
I’m drunk. This is an inebriated post. I’m making myself a promise that I won’t change anything on this post from after I’m done with it now and I;m drunk.
Being drunk allows one to be as honest as possible without caring about the consequences.
Here comes the honesty:
I don’t care about your outfit or my outfit or anyone’s outfit
Fat people are almost always the best people
I have all the same clothes from when I was 14
Depression is often a self-indulgent state of mind I enjoy sinking into
I just took a five minute break from this post to blow my nose
Nobody needs lady gaga
I shave my nipples
Gay people hate each other
I like putting my eyes sockets on knee caps
Ghetto black people are funny (unfortunately not on purpose)
Therapy is rape
My mom and I often laugh together while uttering the word “doody”
Labyrinth is the best movie ever made (you don’t have to be drunk to see that)
Some people had lustrous, unworried childhoods that they look back on with tranquil nostalgia. They skated through school, blending in with the other unexceptional little turds and felt the warmth of normality and acceptance.
And other people had friendless farts of a young existence rife with daily mocking, the boredom of total isolation, and frequent visits from the truancy officer; whose job it is to snatch up terrified downtrodden youngsters from their homes and escort them back to hell in a mini bus.
You can postulate which type of child I was.
I wandered the school halls with one intention: Survival. I didn’t talk to anyone, I didn’t look at anyone, it didn’t matter. My very presence was an affront to those who held a standard of cool. Absolutely nothing about me was cool. I was skeletal, goofy, timid, and I probably smelled bad. I hated sports, had zero interest in girls, and the only music I ever listened to was from Weird Al Yankovic (seen him perform 3 times).
I didn’t even fit in with the nerds. Star Trek, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, and anything else with “Star” in the title was dull as dishwater to me. I didn’t have a clique. And I didn’t want one anyway. I was a clique of one. By fourth grade, my parents started calling my room, “the bat cave”. I locked myself away and created my own world.
While the other kids were doing their marijuana cigarette drugs behind the jungle gym, I was making ugly faces in the mirror and prancing around my room like a woodland elf.
In retrospect, I’m much better off for being the weird creature in the corner rather than a popular child. Now I have friends, prospects, and a sociable demeanor. Now I actually enjoy being around humans and can get along with most people. And the kids from back home…. are still back at home, doing marijuana cigarette drugs behind the jungle gym.
Sometimes I wish that someone would have told me that everything gets better. It could have saved me from a lot of worry.
I joined an online dating website recently because I have a masochistic tendency to seek out rejection even if it’s in a virtual setting.
Just when I thought I couldn’t be more full of hate.
Apparently dating wasn’t difficult enough so they needed to completely dehumanize it into an online silent auction. Dating sites are all basically just ebay but with lonely boners everywhere. Especially when you’re gay.
You should never go on a dating website when you’re horny. It’s like going to the grocery store when you’re hungry. EVERYTHING looks good.
“Oh look! A 43 year-old Home Depot clerk with only one picture of a silhouetted profile! Will you have shallow, needy sex with me, you transitory stranger of tonight?”
My browsing never matters though. Due to my satire of a profile, I usually only get messages from bovine schmucks.
I now present a real, actual conversation I had with a guy that messaged me on the instant chat. Let’s call him Tommy the Tool.
Tommy the Tool: hey
Phantom Future: hi
TT: how are you?
you look so startled in your photo
PF: haha i’m in a constant state of startle
TT: why is that?
PF: psychosis, exactly
you are psychotic at times?
PF: only when i’m fed after midnight
TT: that’s weird
i’ve had enough!
PF: haha had enough of what?
TT: the whole conversation about your psychosis
that’s just weird
PF: yeah, i also have a mild form of polio
TT: okay enough
PF: it’s called folio
i have paralyzed ears rather than FDR legs
do you wanna see?
i have pictures
i also have bowlemia
that’s where you can’t stop vomiting bowling balls
oh shit there’s one coming now
i think it’s gonna be a strike!
anyway, it was nice chatting with you
i’ll message you every day from now until forever
Apparently he couldn’t appreciate a good Gremlins reference. He was probably too busy sniffing wax paper and soaking his bib with drool to understand that the weird guy with the jokey profile was making jokes at him. Oh well.