The therapists of my youth collectively developed a prognosis that my bouts of depression are extremely chemical. My endochrine system heavily dictates my mood. When the depression switch is flipped the dark cloud chems take some time to be flushed out. But fuck all if I'll take their dirty dirty personality pills.

Those psychotropically experienced will understand a trip tell. I always knew I was becoming stoned or about to trip balls when a slightly ticklish pressure formed behind my eyes. My tell. Tells vary. Homies o' mine feel tingles in their fingertips, involuntarily smirk, or feel the moisture in their mouth vacuumed into their tongues. Their tells. Anatomical alarm clocks.

I also have a depression onset tell. Difficult to describe. Basically, it feels as if someone inserts the mini juicebox bendy straw into the foil covered hole in the top of my head and slowly slurps the fluids out until my brain deflates like a jostled souffle and pools at the bottom of my skull. Felt the tell on Thursday.

No idea what triggers it. Happens once or twice a year. Duration, four to six weeks. It sucks donkey, but I have more than learned how to cope. I deal.

Friday night I finally was able to see my man Lou's sketch comedy group Your Mom perform at Surf Reality. I enjoyed it. The oven like atmosphere kept the chuckles internal, but I definitely thought the show was highly funny. Just hard for me to laugh boisterously as I'm fanning my balls with a makeshift paper device so they don't ignite my jeans. My favorite was the Princess Cherry Madlibs sketch. Ropey dope.

Huge posse of post show peeps roaming the Lower East Side for a bar to forcefully occupy. Found a perfect back room spot after two attempts elsewhere. I had a fine time, but the cloud hovered. Piss.

The fact that people in Firestorm, my improv group, were dripping a pouting grudge over a funny transfer didn't help my grey mood. Improv entertainment is an incestuous and cannibalistic business, and if ya ain't adult enough to realise performers migrate, then you oughta stay in the sandbox playing with your bits. Wanted to reach across the table and smack em. Deal you fuckers, deal!

Woke up Saturday and knew positively that I'm in spanky depression mode. Bunker down and stay in the fucking boat. Honestly, the worst part is everyone searching my face for joy and asking "what's wrong dude?". Happens every time. Generally, I suppose, I am known as a jovial impy freak. Most people in my various social circles seem to take an effrontery whenever I get depressed. That reaction is something I do not attempt to assuage or resolve. Like, hey I'm depressed let me help you deal with that. Suck my fart. I know, whenever I get depressed and that upsets you, drop trou and I'll fuck you in the ass to take your mind off of it. Grunkle defunkle.

Anyway, I sort of figured it out. I have an insomnia personality. I have sleep insomnia, and emotional insomnia. I tend to sleep maybe three or four hours a night if I'm lucky. Then, one day a week my body gives up and tanks me, catching up all my sleep for the week. This tank day hasn't actually happened for about three weeks now, so I'm doubly insomniacally freaked. I figure that I tend to find humor in everything for most of the year, and then for a month and a half every year I tank my psyche. Catch up on all the angst for the whole year in a six week span. Healthy? Whatever. It's me. I don't get suicidal or harmful to others. My personality works well with my creative side. Why would I want to fuck that up with their personality drugs. I shit on your pills. I piss on your shit. I spit on your piss. We are friends again!

Don't ask.