My Cook Book

I find myself, yet again, deeply inspired by an undercooked recipe of loneliness and free time, flavored with a pinch of desperation. A formula that, under the right circumstances and bake time, produces a rare chemical effect that renders me the more peculiar kind of depressed.

I've had a lot to think about lately, which is another ingredient in the fore mentioned recipe. At the risk of public revolution, I'll avoid being abstract wherever possible.

I can't really seem to get a grip on my current state. In short, I'm not happy, but we all know that very little fits inside a nutshell. I've found myself seeming vacant recently. Not taking my life and surroundings very seriously. Of course, complete neurotic neutralism has both pros and cons. On the positive side, I'm noticeably less emotional. I'm frequently less distressed about minor things that used to send me up a wall. I seldom get angry or cry, unlike before, and a certain numbing euphoria carpets my passions.

Which leads me into the negative effects of emotional lobotomy. My feelings have been scooped out with a large spoon! I have no love, I have no hate, I have no interest or dissatisfactions. I have no opinion and no meaning, and it's the worst way I could imagine feeling. I want to cry every time I watch Moulin Rouge, and throw furniture around when my boss makes unreasonable demands. I want to yell at someone when the time FEELS right, and I want to confess my love with a kiss where I find elation.

No life should be without spice, especially no young and able life. I want to start cooking with exotic ingredients, even if it means kicking the habit of bland. I want to start living again before I forget what both great and terrible feelings taste like...