Thursday, August 14, 2003
DOPPELGANGER RADAR ALERT
A search of "This Is Depression" on the Google search engine performed on 08/14/2003 at 13:42:02 EST produced the following result(s):
From http://www.geocities.com/mrspersephone/thisisdepression.htm
This is Depression
cling onto the last piece of your life
to keep your sanity
to prove you still have a reason to live
one piece that means so much
yet means nothing
but change
but change is alot when it means death in your mind
i lie hopelessly
awaiting someone to bring me back to life
to help me feel again
but i feel i may suffocate them
i shall place my existance upon them
so they must be strong and accepting
when the world is against you and everything in it
and you have lost all trust
its hard to move ahead
no self esteem
no motivation to go out into society
thinking you dont deserve better
thinking there is noone out there for you
you search for perfection
until you realise nothing is that precious
so you scream and you cry
this is depression
-----------------
WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH EMO EMO EMO. I smell a lawsuit.
Coincidentally, Travis from The Dismemberment Plan may or may not believe I am a 15-year-old goth. Find out why at
http://www.travismorrison.com
A search of "This Is Depression" on the Google search engine performed on 08/14/2003 at 13:42:02 EST produced the following result(s):
From http://www.geocities.com/mrspersephone/thisisdepression.htm
This is Depression
cling onto the last piece of your life
to keep your sanity
to prove you still have a reason to live
one piece that means so much
yet means nothing
but change
but change is alot when it means death in your mind
i lie hopelessly
awaiting someone to bring me back to life
to help me feel again
but i feel i may suffocate them
i shall place my existance upon them
so they must be strong and accepting
when the world is against you and everything in it
and you have lost all trust
its hard to move ahead
no self esteem
no motivation to go out into society
thinking you dont deserve better
thinking there is noone out there for you
you search for perfection
until you realise nothing is that precious
so you scream and you cry
this is depression
-----------------
WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH EMO EMO EMO. I smell a lawsuit.
Coincidentally, Travis from The Dismemberment Plan may or may not believe I am a 15-year-old goth. Find out why at
http://www.travismorrison.com
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
A DAY IN THE LIFE
by Jenkins S. Soriano
CHICAGO, IL - The editors at This Is Depression wanted to hear what average Chicagoans' days were like, so here's mine:
-8:00 AM: I rise from bed, accidentally stepping on my three cats, who have curled together into a small ball to conserve warmth. They scatter immediately. I hate myself.
-8:52 AM: I exit the front door of my townhouse. As I'm locking the front door's deadbolt, my neighbor, Dr. Stanberg, says hello. I look at him and smile. "How's Jeffery?" I ask. Dr. Stanberg frowns. Jeffery isn't his son. Darryl is his son. Jeffery is the British Columbian poolboy who he found 69'ing his wife on the kitchen counter, in front of the dog. I blush.
-9:44 AM: I stand on the bus gripping my briefcase, a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee and a small plastic package of Cheese N' Nekot snack crackers. I shift because I hear someone shout "YO PHISODERM," which was my nickname in college. It turns out I'm just hearing the ramblings of a crazy homeless man at the back of the bus. My snack crackers tumble from their package onto the raw red bald spot of a seated elderly passenger. I apologize. It turns out he has a very rare and very severe allergy to butylated hydroxyanisole, a common preservative found in snack crackers. After I get kicked off the bus by the very angry driver, who is throwing my crackers at me and questioning my heterosexuality, and I watch the bus slowly pull away without me, the elderly man looks out his window at me, his head now swelling and turning purple, and gives me the finger. I feel awful.
-12:34 PM: After standing, stranded, in some distant part of the city and waiting for another bus to come along, and then having one arrive, but the same driver from the first incident is driving so I'm scared and I don't get on and later I find out it was his twin brother who also just happens to drive the same line of the CTA but would not have let me on anyway because he heard a description of me radioed to all the bus drivers in Chicago by his brother the first driver, I finally walk the 197 blocks to my office. I apologize profusely to my boss, who sits me down and lectures me on the importance of a tardy-free workplace. He keeps circling my chair, clutching a golf club, saying things like "Golf is a lot like keeping your employees in line. You whack 'em hard enough, they're bound to get right down there in that tin cup." I shiver while he speaks to me.
-2:15 PM: After the horrifying reprimand from the boss, I settle down at my desk to work on the McManus file. It's a very important client, and I desire to do the best damn job I can with the proposal. Our pretty new secretary Stephanie enters my office to give me a new printer cartridge I had requested. I rise to take it from her and offer thanks, and my shirt gets snagged on an errant nail half-protruding from my shoddily constructed desk. By the time I'm fully standing, hand outstretched, my shirt has come completely off, revealing the words BLOW ME LIKE A HURRICANE, STEPHANIE written on my chest in magic marker, the result of a purely coincidental bar bet I lost at Young's Tavern the night before. I had forgotten to wash the writing off when I woke up this morning. Stephanie screams and punches me in the stomach. I stumble backwards and fall on my shirt.
-4:15 PM: My boss calls me into his office after finding out I'd been hiding under my desk for two hours. He's fully dressed as a hockey goalie, complete with face mask and pads. He makes me sit down and lectures me with analogies like "You know, scaring the shit of a sissy like you is a lot like hockey. You put on the requisite equipment and go out there and do it." I nod politely but the falling beads of sweat are stinging my eyes so I look down at the floor. The boss gets up and puts the tip of his stick on my shoulder. He says he'll spare me and simply demote me to mail clerk. It turns out Stephanie has my old job now because she demonstrated "adequate prowess" in the handling of our little misunderstanding. Dejected, I head to the mailroom.
-4:17 PM: I enter the Accounting Department to hand the guys their mail. When I arrive at Mr. Dacenzo's desk, I mean to say "Here you go, here's your mail, sir," but it comes out as "I'm gonna fucking slaughter your children." He yells a lot and the boss comes downstairs, this time dressed as a cricket batsman. He fires me on the spot.
-5:03 PM: I decide to forgo the bus for the el this afternoon, seeing as how the bus drivers are all on the lookout for me. As I board a Brown Line train, the doors suddenly close, trapping the last half inch of my nose. I scream and flail but the train keeps moving. Finally some onlookers laugh so hard that the train's motorman slams on the brakes to see what's so funny. An hour later, the EMTs are removing me from my now severed nose. I ask why they couldn't have just opened the doors, and they all get mad and start saying things like "Can you believe the nerve of this guy?" The doors then open and my severed nose stub falls through the gap between the train and the platform. I feel like crying, but instead I walk forward onto the train. A conductor stops me. He says I can't get on. I ask why not. He points to my severed nose and says "Looking like that? No way. SO unfashionable." I shrug and exit the station.
-7:12 PM: I get home after walking all the way back from downtown. There's a note on my door. It says "Trixie had kittens." I wonder who the hell Trixie is and enter my house. Inside there are a bunch of detectives and reporters shining lights in my face. It turns out that Trixie was a 9 year old girl who had saved a litter of kittens and was the object of the media's affections but someone stole the kittens one night, prompting the governor to exclaim "What a despicable bastard." I kept telling the police that I had just bought my cats at a yard sale years ago and that I really didn't think they were the same cats but Trixie herself tugged on my pant leg and looked up at me and said "I've heard it all before, you despicable bastard." The entire room full of cops and reporters started laughing and then one of the cops said "Is there any booze in this place?" After that, I was kicked out while they had an impromptu party in Trixie's honor. I find out later that the note on my door was left by Vanessa, my other next door neighbor. It turns out Vanessa had a huge crush on me and wanted to warn me before I entered the house but it also turns out that Vanessa is a narcoleptic and fell asleep halfway into writing me the note. It also turns out that Vanessa is really bad at writing brief notes and getting to the point of things.
-11:29 PM: The cops and reporters all leave after having one last smoke and exchanging AIM screennames. I finally get back into my house to find my cats gone and a lot of empty plastic cups laying around. Someone has vomited in the bathtub and written "The Chief Of Police Vomited In Your Bathtub" on the bathroom mirror. In vomit. I sigh and simply walk into my bedroom, where the Cook County Superintendent of Public Schools jumps out of my bed, startled and naked, some anonymous blonde reporter passed out next to him. I sigh again and go into my basement to find a sleeping bag.
-11:50 PM. In the basement I slip on some mildewed stone steps and crack my head against the concrete floor. I'm in a coma for the next sixteen years.
And that's a typical day in my life. What's yours like?
by Jenkins S. Soriano
CHICAGO, IL - The editors at This Is Depression wanted to hear what average Chicagoans' days were like, so here's mine:
-8:00 AM: I rise from bed, accidentally stepping on my three cats, who have curled together into a small ball to conserve warmth. They scatter immediately. I hate myself.
-8:52 AM: I exit the front door of my townhouse. As I'm locking the front door's deadbolt, my neighbor, Dr. Stanberg, says hello. I look at him and smile. "How's Jeffery?" I ask. Dr. Stanberg frowns. Jeffery isn't his son. Darryl is his son. Jeffery is the British Columbian poolboy who he found 69'ing his wife on the kitchen counter, in front of the dog. I blush.
-9:44 AM: I stand on the bus gripping my briefcase, a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee and a small plastic package of Cheese N' Nekot snack crackers. I shift because I hear someone shout "YO PHISODERM," which was my nickname in college. It turns out I'm just hearing the ramblings of a crazy homeless man at the back of the bus. My snack crackers tumble from their package onto the raw red bald spot of a seated elderly passenger. I apologize. It turns out he has a very rare and very severe allergy to butylated hydroxyanisole, a common preservative found in snack crackers. After I get kicked off the bus by the very angry driver, who is throwing my crackers at me and questioning my heterosexuality, and I watch the bus slowly pull away without me, the elderly man looks out his window at me, his head now swelling and turning purple, and gives me the finger. I feel awful.
-12:34 PM: After standing, stranded, in some distant part of the city and waiting for another bus to come along, and then having one arrive, but the same driver from the first incident is driving so I'm scared and I don't get on and later I find out it was his twin brother who also just happens to drive the same line of the CTA but would not have let me on anyway because he heard a description of me radioed to all the bus drivers in Chicago by his brother the first driver, I finally walk the 197 blocks to my office. I apologize profusely to my boss, who sits me down and lectures me on the importance of a tardy-free workplace. He keeps circling my chair, clutching a golf club, saying things like "Golf is a lot like keeping your employees in line. You whack 'em hard enough, they're bound to get right down there in that tin cup." I shiver while he speaks to me.
-2:15 PM: After the horrifying reprimand from the boss, I settle down at my desk to work on the McManus file. It's a very important client, and I desire to do the best damn job I can with the proposal. Our pretty new secretary Stephanie enters my office to give me a new printer cartridge I had requested. I rise to take it from her and offer thanks, and my shirt gets snagged on an errant nail half-protruding from my shoddily constructed desk. By the time I'm fully standing, hand outstretched, my shirt has come completely off, revealing the words BLOW ME LIKE A HURRICANE, STEPHANIE written on my chest in magic marker, the result of a purely coincidental bar bet I lost at Young's Tavern the night before. I had forgotten to wash the writing off when I woke up this morning. Stephanie screams and punches me in the stomach. I stumble backwards and fall on my shirt.
-4:15 PM: My boss calls me into his office after finding out I'd been hiding under my desk for two hours. He's fully dressed as a hockey goalie, complete with face mask and pads. He makes me sit down and lectures me with analogies like "You know, scaring the shit of a sissy like you is a lot like hockey. You put on the requisite equipment and go out there and do it." I nod politely but the falling beads of sweat are stinging my eyes so I look down at the floor. The boss gets up and puts the tip of his stick on my shoulder. He says he'll spare me and simply demote me to mail clerk. It turns out Stephanie has my old job now because she demonstrated "adequate prowess" in the handling of our little misunderstanding. Dejected, I head to the mailroom.
-4:17 PM: I enter the Accounting Department to hand the guys their mail. When I arrive at Mr. Dacenzo's desk, I mean to say "Here you go, here's your mail, sir," but it comes out as "I'm gonna fucking slaughter your children." He yells a lot and the boss comes downstairs, this time dressed as a cricket batsman. He fires me on the spot.
-5:03 PM: I decide to forgo the bus for the el this afternoon, seeing as how the bus drivers are all on the lookout for me. As I board a Brown Line train, the doors suddenly close, trapping the last half inch of my nose. I scream and flail but the train keeps moving. Finally some onlookers laugh so hard that the train's motorman slams on the brakes to see what's so funny. An hour later, the EMTs are removing me from my now severed nose. I ask why they couldn't have just opened the doors, and they all get mad and start saying things like "Can you believe the nerve of this guy?" The doors then open and my severed nose stub falls through the gap between the train and the platform. I feel like crying, but instead I walk forward onto the train. A conductor stops me. He says I can't get on. I ask why not. He points to my severed nose and says "Looking like that? No way. SO unfashionable." I shrug and exit the station.
-7:12 PM: I get home after walking all the way back from downtown. There's a note on my door. It says "Trixie had kittens." I wonder who the hell Trixie is and enter my house. Inside there are a bunch of detectives and reporters shining lights in my face. It turns out that Trixie was a 9 year old girl who had saved a litter of kittens and was the object of the media's affections but someone stole the kittens one night, prompting the governor to exclaim "What a despicable bastard." I kept telling the police that I had just bought my cats at a yard sale years ago and that I really didn't think they were the same cats but Trixie herself tugged on my pant leg and looked up at me and said "I've heard it all before, you despicable bastard." The entire room full of cops and reporters started laughing and then one of the cops said "Is there any booze in this place?" After that, I was kicked out while they had an impromptu party in Trixie's honor. I find out later that the note on my door was left by Vanessa, my other next door neighbor. It turns out Vanessa had a huge crush on me and wanted to warn me before I entered the house but it also turns out that Vanessa is a narcoleptic and fell asleep halfway into writing me the note. It also turns out that Vanessa is really bad at writing brief notes and getting to the point of things.
-11:29 PM: The cops and reporters all leave after having one last smoke and exchanging AIM screennames. I finally get back into my house to find my cats gone and a lot of empty plastic cups laying around. Someone has vomited in the bathtub and written "The Chief Of Police Vomited In Your Bathtub" on the bathroom mirror. In vomit. I sigh and simply walk into my bedroom, where the Cook County Superintendent of Public Schools jumps out of my bed, startled and naked, some anonymous blonde reporter passed out next to him. I sigh again and go into my basement to find a sleeping bag.
-11:50 PM. In the basement I slip on some mildewed stone steps and crack my head against the concrete floor. I'm in a coma for the next sixteen years.
And that's a typical day in my life. What's yours like?
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
CONFESSIONS OF A RUFF RYDER
by Infa-Red
"Word bond. Ruff Ryders, nigga."
"Ain't no half-steppin', know what I'm sayin'? Holla."
"Word up. Ruff Ryders. Y.O. Ride or die."
"Dog, don't even step to us...For real. We killas. Holla."
"You know what? Actually things have been really 'rough' recently. Don't you like that play on words? I know, bon mot indeed. Well, it hasn't been a financial hardship, you see, as album sales have remained healthy despite the downturn in the economy and the prevalence of file-sharing programs such as KaZaa and LimeWire. No, no, my fiduciary situation remains stable. It is in the cavernous depths of my unrequited heart that the problem dwells. I seem to have taken a shining to a milkily-complexed maiden in Connecticut, and for the life of me I can't seem to shake the stirrings of amour, or as the indians called it, chohannowa. You see, I am absolutely enraptured by her effervescent smile, luxuriously amber hair, refined wit, austere poise and salacious complexity, to name but a few of her glorious traits. And yet every night, she telephones a nigga at the crib, only to convey the highlights of her evening in Stamford with that most loathsome of the trust-fund set, Chad Bennington. Why, the very thought sends my humors into a boil! How such a delicate blossom of intelligence and beauty could feel connection let alone affection to such a tyrannous mongrel defies even the wildest imagination or logic! O, woe unto myself and my condition, heretofore felt no doubt through the ages, from the mightiest pharaoh to the lowliest peasant. Woe, how I have no doubt joined that team of lackluster lovers, destined to rattle the sabre that is my heart against the churning of the high seas and the marauders who hath stolen my one true sunset with expedience! Woe! The agony is too much to bear!"
"Word is bond. Ruff Ryders. Y.O. Holla."
by Infa-Red
"Word bond. Ruff Ryders, nigga."
"Ain't no half-steppin', know what I'm sayin'? Holla."
"Word up. Ruff Ryders. Y.O. Ride or die."
"Dog, don't even step to us...For real. We killas. Holla."
"You know what? Actually things have been really 'rough' recently. Don't you like that play on words? I know, bon mot indeed. Well, it hasn't been a financial hardship, you see, as album sales have remained healthy despite the downturn in the economy and the prevalence of file-sharing programs such as KaZaa and LimeWire. No, no, my fiduciary situation remains stable. It is in the cavernous depths of my unrequited heart that the problem dwells. I seem to have taken a shining to a milkily-complexed maiden in Connecticut, and for the life of me I can't seem to shake the stirrings of amour, or as the indians called it, chohannowa. You see, I am absolutely enraptured by her effervescent smile, luxuriously amber hair, refined wit, austere poise and salacious complexity, to name but a few of her glorious traits. And yet every night, she telephones a nigga at the crib, only to convey the highlights of her evening in Stamford with that most loathsome of the trust-fund set, Chad Bennington. Why, the very thought sends my humors into a boil! How such a delicate blossom of intelligence and beauty could feel connection let alone affection to such a tyrannous mongrel defies even the wildest imagination or logic! O, woe unto myself and my condition, heretofore felt no doubt through the ages, from the mightiest pharaoh to the lowliest peasant. Woe, how I have no doubt joined that team of lackluster lovers, destined to rattle the sabre that is my heart against the churning of the high seas and the marauders who hath stolen my one true sunset with expedience! Woe! The agony is too much to bear!"
"Word is bond. Ruff Ryders. Y.O. Holla."
