So I've been over at Nichols' place again.
Yeah, he's still pissed about his Thundarr DVDs.
But he bought pizza for us anyways so we could eat and write.
Or he wrote. I ate. And most importantly, dictated my story while he did the bitch work.
Then he got all pissy. He stopped typing, bent down and rubbed his eyes.
"This is all too depressing," he moped. "I can't take it."
"It's the truth," I yelled back, damn near spitting a pepperoni slice back at him. "I can't change the truth of what the war was...or what it will be...or whatever."
So then he starts going on about how tough his life is. He's having money troubles and doesn't know how to better his situation in life (like most liberals, he just doesn't work hard enough.) He tells me about "this great weight" or something that depression is, then something about some broad named Sylvia Plath, and how he wishes he could reach into his wimpy wittle head and "rip the depression and anxiety cogs right out of the machine."
That's when I lost it.
I told him he needs that depression. Yeah, that's right. We all do. Depression helps us survive. When we expect the absolute worst, we're either prepared and can defend ourselves or we're pleasantly surprised and get a rest...until the next crapstorm. Depression is what gives you that "gravel in ya guts and that spit in ya eye" like the holy Man in Black once said. In fact, I started having serious doubts as to whether or not Nichols could even write an accurate account of my story if he weren't depressed.
And so my mission orders became clear.
It was up to me to keep him depressed. I needed to keep him just one reach away from the razor blades. I needed to leave him drained of the energy to even scratch his own ass. And lemme tell ya, folks...
Jake Timber's just the man to do that.
First off, I thought I'd build eez hopes up...just before I send 'em crashing to the ground. That works every time for depression. I told him I wanted to quit my idea of an unlimited series of Jake Timber books and just start out with one. See how it goes. This seemed to perk him up a bit, bushy up his tail and whatnot.
Then I came back about ten minutes later with an "I'm just fuckin' with ya, put the ball and chain back on, jackass."
Ha! Shoulda seen eem.
I reminded him that Julius Peppers got traded to the Packers...meaning this year for the Packers is GONNA ROCK! Then I went into details about all the dead animals I've found during my time, especially the ones I hunted and skinned myself. That messed with his head. Then I got hold of his credit card statements, his FICO scores, and the rejection letters from PhD programs (all 11 of them) and taped them up all around the computer while he was taking a dump (which I helped along by sneaking Ex-Lax into his chocolate brownie. Dumbass.)
After that, I mighta taken it too far. Just as soon as I got done taking a claw hammer to the side of his sucky Saturn in the garage ("Hey! Got more car maintenance ya gotta pay for! How ya like dem apples?") I came back into the house to give him a lecture about just how alone in the world he really is when I saw him...
He was hunched over the laptop, just staring off into space. Not doing much more than that. I put a hand in front of his face and felt little breaths. Guess he was still alive, but geez...
Let this be a lesson from Jake Timber, boys and girls. Depression is pain. Pain is power. When you stop feeling it, you can use it. That's what I've done on the battlefield.
But when you're a putz like Nichols, a little bit can cause a cave in.
Gotta make a note to myself about that.