Perhaps The Saddest Irony Of Depression Is

The Mob Became Unruly And The Police Were Forced To Resort To Sex.

If You Have A Relative Who's Lost Interest In Everything And Doesn't Get Out Of Bed, Who Doesn't Care For Things They Used To, Can't Imagine Anything That Would Give Them Any Pleasure, Don't Fool Around With It; Get Therapy, Get Help, Get Medication If That's Right For You, Or Talk Therapy, Or Something.

I Have A Disturbing Problem With Losing Things. My Vulnerability To Loss-distress Could Properly Be Labeled Not Only Inordinate, But Neurotic.

The Idea That Hunting Is One Against One Is Ludicrous. It's One Animal Versus The Hunter, The Manufacturer Of The Rifle, The Bullet Maker, The Designer And Manufacturer Of The Telescopic Sight, The Auto Manufacturer Who Made The Car The Hunter Got To The Edge Of The Wild In, The Maker Of His Waterproof Shoes, The Various Manufacturers Of His Mittens, Glasses, Overcoat - And That's Only The Beginning Of The List. The "sportsman" Who Shoots An Animal Should Then Make A Speech, Like The Actor Who Wins An Oscar Does, Thanking The Multitudes Behind The Scenes Who Made This "victory" Possible.

I Have A Feeling That About 90% Of My Life Has Been Shaped By My Voice, Both As An Embarrassment And As An Advantage. There Was Always The Terrible Incongruity Of This Deep Voice Barreling Out Of This Little Body. Somewhere In The Back Of My Mind I Was Aware That It Was Ludicrous, That It Took On An Importance That Wasn't Really There.