I was listening to some Jhameel, so I made this. Enjoy.
So I have a mild depression problem. It can occasionally be slightly debilitating, and lead to my having terrible thoughts about myself, but overall it’s not all that severe, so I am by no means an expert on the subject… Which means you can ignore everything I say from here on out without hurting my feelings…. not that I care what you think… ya ignorant bigot… sorry.
The depression itself is usually triggered by a whole lot of nothing that I am aware of, and leads to my feeling really bored, useless, lethargic, and apathetic about everything and nothing. This makes it really hard for me to do any personal work, as I can’t see any point in doing it. Everything seems dumb and pointless. I FEEL NOTHING!!! I can only imagine that this is how rocks feel all the time.
In an attempt to deal with it, I asked my doctor what could be done. She suggested talk therapy, and handed over the card of a local talk therapist. To which, I politely said “thank you”, and thought “the crap’s a talk therapist?”. The thought of what talk therapy might look like revolts me to my core, but I’m trying to keep an open mind about it… Trying and failing that is.
One method that I’ve used in the past for evading depression, is to draw about it while I still can. These drawings are usually pretty dark, but they will often reduce my bi-monthly depression to about four days instead of the usual week. So yeah, I’ve got that going for me.
All in all, I’m still learning how to deal with it, and am open to suggestions from those with past experience… Unless I’m depressed when I read said suggestion… In that case, I’ll probably just gurgle a bit and go back to brooding.
As a whole, I have a warm fuzzy fondness for the order rodentia. Bunnies and guinea pigs melt my heart, and who can hate prairie dogs? Standing there on their little mounds of dirt, yelling at each other in short sharp chirps. It’s frickin adorbs!
But there is a line that must not be crossed; A simple rule that, if broken, will cause a bitter conflict to ensue.
Imagine my surprise and disgust when, two weeks ago, I realized that this rule had been broken. A pair of tiny grey poop machines were making use of my cupboards in a most unseemly fashion. Their little false chocolate sprinkles were peppering my pots and pans. I use those. And not for what those dirty toed cat morsels were.
This, of course, meant war. I tried to employ Azula, my cat, to dispatch the offenders, but it turns out that being your own cousin has its downsides.
So I set traps. Within hours, I found an unusually large and very dead mouse with his face smashed into the dab of peanut butter I’d used as bait.
But there was still one left. So I reset the trap and waited. Yet again, within hours, I heard a sharp snap. Upon further investigation, I found that the trap had sprung, but it was empty. And the peanut butter was gone.
Since then, I’ve been scheming and searching for new ways to bring about the survivor’s demise. He’s a steely little devil. My threats and taunts fail to lure him out.
I can only assume that he’s biding his time. Waiting for my guard to go down so he can put his dirty little feet in my favorite cereal bowl, poisoning me. Once I’m out of the picture, he’ll have free range to poop on all of my stuff. I must remain vigilant.
Combine in medium-ish bowl and mush together until it’s like way smooth and pliable. Then, role it way thin… really thin. Cover the dough and place it off to the side.
Finely dice that stuff and just eyeball the amount you’d like. Then mix it with
Next, you’ll mix the filling with the sauce.
Use a cup to cut small discs out of the dough and put the goop you just made in said disc.
STEAM THOSE PUPPIES!
Now dip that in some soy sauce and eat it.
Back when pokemon were just an idea, I was shorter and didn’t shave. I would attend events that were filled with others who were also shorter and didn’t shave, and usually one taller person who, I assume, did shave. Such events were called stuff like “kindergarten”, “birthdays”, and “Sunday School”. I would often attend these events for one of two reasons, either my parents had told me to, or because I had a minute desire to have friends around the same age as me. However, they all ended up the same, which is as follows:
10 minutes before leaving house for event- Excitement.
5 minutes till arrival at event- Mild anxiety.
At event- Pure unadulterated hatred for all that surrounds me.
I had a very strong dislike for other children. They were loud, often disrespectful, thought that the red Power Ranger was better than the blue one, and they smelt like someone else’s carpet. The adult who acted as overseer would often notice my distress and either offer me a toy, or food.
The offered toy was typically of no interest to me. It smelt weird, like the children around me, and it often had some sort of greasy residue on it, probably of french-fry origin. So I’d accept the toy with bogus gratitude, because I was polite, and would go back to loathing everything about my current surroundings. It seemed like the the proper thing to do.
The offered food was where the real danger lie. One event in particular that has clung to my memory like a bur on a dog’s butt is when my Sunday school teacher gave me a small cookie on a white floral textured napkin.
To my big, blue, five year old eyes it looked like a perfectly innocent chocolate chip cookie, which was and always will be like Lembas is to weary travelers. But I was deceived. Chewing on the first bite, I realized that it was neither chocolate, nor cookie. It was dried grapes baked into even drier oats.
The disappointment was staggering.
Now that I am taller, and shave, I make cookies on a regular basis. I typically bake them alone, and to 90’s grunge. If anyone asks to put a foreign object in the still moist dough, say a nut, fruit, or whole grain, I immediately excommunicate them from the premise and unfriend them on facebook.
I don’t bake deceit.
I bake TRUTH!