I’m either A) slipping into depression, B) out to set the world record in feeling sorry for oneself, or C) in an exceptionally bad mood these days. As differential diagnosis, let me offer this: If you tell me to seek help, I’ll invite you to mind your own fucking business,
Well, living in a Dickensian novel as I do, you won’t be surprised to learn a family friend who was about my father’s age committed suicide since we last talked. Guess why. Guuuuuuuessssssss. Did you say Degenerative Incurable Brain Disease? Well then, ten points to Gryffindor. It’s ghastly, ghastly business