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Before the meth downs and before my last grandfather died, before Sept. 11, I'd have occasional severe spells of Plathish dissonance and would litter my surroundings in yet a bit more little girl lost acrimony.

Plenty of Mazzy Starry nights lying on the bed or floor, watching Flaming June in her slumber while struggling on a clove and a memory of how good riding a bicycle through the neighborhood at sunset when 10 years old felt. Odd to think how I never wanted a child until two hits of liquid acid made me change my mind a few years ago- and how for the longest time I was sure I'd never find anyone to make that a possible future anyway.

There was a time I and I'm sure many would scrawl bits of foolish poetry, the tepid work of a passionate drunkard, on torn letters in a mailroom while filing medical claims. Here, I'd suffer my first love and swear I'd never do it again. But you go back, Jack- just fodder for that unavoidable emotion. I should have listened to my groundling mother.

Today I dissipate into it once more, certainly not for the last time, and watching Betty Boop's Snow White like I used to at 2 a.m. in college becomes the familiar comfort.

Yes all of these depressions seem so absurd to wallow in. But sometimes, your beloved and heartfull grandfather dies. Sometimes, you've done too many pathetic drugs. Sometimes you realize your little novel probably won't get anywhere and sometimes fear can overwhelm you completely after watching buildings burn away.

Folks, now that you have heard my story,
Say, boy, hand me another shot of that booze;
If anyone should ask you,
Tell 'em I've got those St. James Infirmary blues.

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