A little depression goes a long way.

Hello.

My name is Slight.

I have a problem with lying.

For clarity's sake: I lie too often, rather than not enough.

I need someone new who I haven't lied to yet.

Hello.

My name is Slight.

Now you know why we have met.

You are my clean slate; the bleached, plastic cutting board of my social inadequacies--the subject of my every whim. You will be what I need you to be because then I won't feel the need to lie to you. You will be amorphous; the misshapen guise of public degradation; the empty wine cellar--no charming, inebriated judgment lies on your slanted shelves. I am lain upon the guillotine, my future placed on the extreme line of a single juxtaposition: decapitation versus salvation.

I thank you in advance, my foolish reader, for you may help me to keep from a sharp drop, a quick jolt, and one hell of a rope burn. Mind you, I am not suicidal. I just need someone to tell the truth to. If push decides to get brash (and shove isn't there to console push), then the one who hangs me will be my morality, for I do not know how to tie a noose.

* * *

My English teacher told me out of the blue today that every great writer has a marginal amount of depression rattling around in their skulls. I took this as her saying, "You've got a chance." Considering the fact that I wrote my first essay on my untreated, bipolar step-father, I think she could tell.

I realized quickly that my best writing is not only motivated by a spark of depression, but enhanced by it. But I hate getting depressed... So is it worth it to write well, yet be unhappy? I have no idea. But I love when I write something good. And I guess it's not so bad when I sift through YouTube videos for about two hours with a half-frown, a bag of sunflower seeds, and an empty Pepsi bottle...

* * *

I want a Toblerone.

Have you ever had one?

They are delicious! The epitome of chocolate wonder. The diet killer. (Not that I am in any way akin to dieting... but one can speculate.)

I suppose a marginal amount of the candy's allure derives from it's shape: It's a triangle. Cool. And when hastily ripped from it's yellow box and tight foil, placed daintily upon my wooden desk, and considered with eyes but millimeters from it's brown, sugary surface, it takes on the imposing appearance of mountains. And then you eat it and it's all gone and you want another.

You would think mountains of chocolate would last longer.

Boo.

* * *

Sincerely, truly, candidly, and duly,
Slight.