Today's writing

I hadn’t counted on my mind gluing my ass to the couch. I hadn’t planned on all this time-consuming – what the hell is this?

Depression.

A golden retriever or a terrorist.

I can’t figure out whether to strap a leash on the damn thing or run for the door. In his mutt moments he rolls on his back, regards me with eyes whose black would be impossible were they not so merry. “I’m the end of the road,” Depression says in his bouncy dog-voice. “Come with me and you’ll never have to fight again.”

Then he’s a terrorist, hiding in all the safe places, retaining the sweet canine countenance, presenting cruelty that is kind, lulling, seductive. “I’m the truth,” Depression tells you, and you believe him, managing even to ignore the rifle tucked under his right arm. “I’m comforting,” he says, and you need comfort. He will choke you with soft hands. He will insert his needle into your lifeblood, drawing it into a black vial.