Depression or Escapism is an Art Form

on my way to work this morning, stomping in puddles and squinting out of my rain-stained glasses, trying not to cry, i was thinking about one of my many (many) superiors, rebecca.

rebecca is quite the social butterfly:

while i sit at home on dark, cold winter nights, rebecca is out gallivanting around manhattan. last night, for instance, she had a date. (i already called dibs if things don't work out between them. and there's a line because this guy is apparently wealthy. we're up to "sloppy fourths" with becky, so take a number.)

sometimes, rebecca has benefit dinners or goes to the gym or drinks (but not with me. she always has an excuse for why she can't do THAT....)

maybe there's something to this "doing things". maybe people who do things with their evenings are happier, or at least less prone to burst into tears than me. maybe if i found a special purpose (but not in that "the jerk" sort of way) i too could somehow make it through the day to day shenanigans that currently make my life a living hell.

becky volunteers. i mean, she just started today, but she feels smug about it, superior and therefore good about life.

becca throws herself into her professional life at her hoity toity company. she makes a lot of money and gets rung by rung closer to the top of that ladder. (i'm sure she'll get there, too.)

i should think about this more. wait for it....wait for it....

okay, so i thought about it. it turns out that this theory only holds true for those named rebecca. therefore i've decided to change my name to rebecca.

no, scratch that. i've decided to get back into my bed until spring. wake me up when the sun comes out.