Sometimes I just want to throw up the badness. Or, I wish I could find the Depression-Off-Switch. At least I’d like to get some kind of schedule of WHEN I am going to feel horrible. I don’t even know what it is. The grey skies? The holidays without Tate? The tuna melt I had for dinner?
So I’m feeling so emotionally saggy–like gravity is pulling my face DOWN–and I have to go to Awana and play the tambourine. Yeah. I have a gig. I take my yellow charismatic professional-grade instrument and provide stellar percussion to the likes of The B-I-B-L-E or I’ve Got a River of Life or This is the Day. Children from ages 3 to 13 rock out to my beat. I’m actually part of the ‘band’. Someone plays the piano, there are a couple guitars, a saxophone and a guy that leads the songs. Normally I’m pretty excited (and I act like I’m the leader of the band as a joke, but they don’t always get it–like they think I’m all serious about it and don’t know that I am so aware that it takes SO LITTLE TALENT to play…)–but I had to DRAG myself down there tonight. Then when I got there, I actually had fun playing. Maybe I generated some seratonin between jangles. Then I came back and remembered that I felt bad.
I forgot my point. Pass me the Prozac.
The Wood Between the Worlds 
