A quick description of depression

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Drinking three Dark Stars,
driving to the Salida Gunshop,
buying a CZ P-75 and 100 rounds,
driving to Cellar Wine & Spirits,
buying a six-pack of Yeti,
drinking all six said yetis while driving over Marshall Pass into the night through a foot of snow blasting Ticon and shooting at roadside reflectors all along the way,

and

waking up in the front seat the next morning
with barely any memory of the drive from Sargents to some random liquor store in Gunnison for a six-pack of Disco Wolf,
and zero memory of drinking all six said wolves while driving 25 miles up Highway 92 along the Black Canyon to some random gravel pullout choked with enough newfallen powder to call into question any chance of escaping the place before next spring—

would certainly be a very bad idea.

But Fuck it,
he said,
and went and did it anyways.

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I suppose the alcoholism will probably kill me unless the pistol kills me first. I imagine the two could also work together to do me in. The cruelty of depression is a complex matter but perhaps its most sinister trait is that the only way to escape it is by accessing death. You can either suffer your way through life self-medicating and waiting with a dulled sense of fear for it to strike, to seize control and with cold spontaneity initiate a violent event that ends you — or you can take things into your own hands preemptively. The former option is quite miserable and the latter isn't as easy as you might think. People like Tony Robbins, Norman Vincent Peale, Joel Osteen, and all such self-help charlatans who subscribe to Western religio-philosophical creeds are as far as I'm concerned wolves wearing the skin of sheep, because they either fail to understand or refuse to admit that what works for them does not necessarily work for everyone. All these assholes do is make me want to drink more. The only giant awakening within me is the one with the power to make me think positively about taking my own best life right now. Thanks you fuckers but I think I'll opt instead for things that might actually work, like shamans and psychedelics, just as soon as I sober up enough to get anything on my to-do list done. Curse this disease and while we're at this marvelous little game of invocations, side note — God bless America's enemies each and every one, for the stronger they grow the sooner arrives our well-deserved demise, and the sooner I can take my satisfaction in watching the world burn while everyone around me cries and panics and dies. Amen.

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Poem goes here.

Any sort of poem will do,
no need to rhyme or bother with following any kind of rules,
just make sure it reels people in as quickly as possible and keeps them reading.

Maybe do up a bit of free verse about the selfless sacrifices of the military police as they bravely serve and protect each and every one of us with nary a thought of their own safety,
or maybe work up something magically dramatic about that time you saw a kid blow off his own hand with a homemade bomb on the Fourth of July.

Well now, isn't this an interesting development —
You can run with comedy or take a stab at tragedy,
but either way you're gonna have violence in your lines.

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Last night I had a dream where I was fucking my super hot coworker who I've had a huge crush on for a really long time. This is obviously a sign from God, so I guess I'll pick up some roses, wine, and condoms on my way to work today. What's funny about this situation is I actually saw a guy buy those exact three things at the Jewel-Osco on Clark & Division one time many years ago. Roses, wine, and condoms, nothing else. I was standing right behind him in line. It was Valentine's Day but still, talk about balls of steel. Dude did not give a single fuck what anyone thought about him. What's also funny about this is I was actually buying the same exact three things, only difference is he was buying white wine and I was buying red. The two of us shared a few lighthearted jokes as he was checking out, then he left and I never saw him again. I later found out he was the guy my girlfriend was cheating on me with. It's fine, though — turns out I was the guy his girlfriend was cheating on him with. She was a super hot coworker who I'd had a huge crush on for a really long time, and when I heard her boyfriend hadn't made any plans for Valentine's Day, I knew I had to strike. We had a wonderful dinner date, she invited me back to her place, and the sex was incredible, but then I woke up from my dream, saw the pistol in my hand, watched as it took its aim against me, and bam just like that I had zero memory of anything and everything that had ever happened to me, because something else had seized control.

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_{Original writing and photography by @unholyghost. Thanks for swinging by.}