The other day I was sitting on a chaise lounge, thinking about this horrible cloud of depression that feels like it is literally shrouding my brain. I was thinking about calling the doctor. I was thinking that maybe it might be time to take the pills, for once. I was wondering how much I should say to the doctor if I did call her, where the line was between conveying the seriousness of my symptoms and getting myself put on some sort of 72 hour hold.
I was sitting there, thinking all of this, when all of a sudden I was shat upon. A bird flew over and shat a big berry shit all over me. All over my towel. All over my cover up. All over my magazine. It was breathtaking. I sat there, stunned, immobilized, trying to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean. Here I am, thinking about the disaster that has become of my mental health, and I just got crapped on.
What else could I do? I laughed. See Brooke Shields? Tom Cruise was right! Who needs meds when you can just laugh when something disgusting happens at a comically well-timed moment?
I'll be okay. Don't worry about me. But you may hear more from me on the matter.