resting blue

it has been pointed out to me oh, a few times, that my moods are a bit... mecurial. it is usually done in a concerned, slightly condescending way. my latest response: "at least i'm honest at any given moment."
pharmaceuticals make the world vapid. it seems like giving up. a pill should not replace the exhausting flux of being alive. i have been on antidepressants twice: once when i was 19 (duration: 5 months), once when i was 24 (duration: 2 months). both times i grew so disgusted with the flagrant BULLSHIT of taking a pill to not be me that i stopped cold-turkey. the lack of saliva, arousal, appetite, personal responsibility, hysterical laughter, and manic behavior aided my decision too.
drugs should be for fun only.
*
the last few days have been cloudless and cold. the moon is full and rises across the lake, filling my lair with grey light. the stars are out. i am no longer (as) sick. life goes on. despite everything.
*
there is a new coffee-table book called 'the last supper' (i think) that features 50-odd famous chefs floridly discussing their ideal final meal. the book includes a full-page naked picture of anthony bourdain holding a flank of raw meat against his genitals. (i am still girlishly smiling about this image, two days later.) so i thought: what would my final meal be?
it would constitute the moments in which i have been the most dippily in love with the world:
a diner with booths and hanging plants and sunshine streaming through grimy windows. a diner in which one could smoke copiously. the oldies would be playing. and i would be sitting across from someone i had a severe crush on, both of us rumpled from all-night sex, both glassy-eyed and lazily grinning. i would have nasty diner coffee, black, and rosemary toast with a shitload of butter. and creamy scrambled eggs with thin lacy edges and lots of salt. and a fat slice of a perfectly ripe tomato, also covered in salt. and if it wasn't too erroneous to the palate, a few crinkle-cut fries dipped in very chunky tartar sauce. and perhaps a fat hunk of unagi, no rice, for dessert.
breakfast is my favorite meal, always. i have never had a bad breakfast.
last night i went to the mecca to write. the hi-fi alternated between the likes of "ghostbusters", "back in black" and "killing an arab"; i was one of the only people there. an older man kept careening up and down the aisle, stopping at one point to peer at my page. "damn, you write good!" he said cheerfully. "that a good book you writing?"
i smiled, feeling immediately stupid. "not yet" i said inanely.
the waitress good-humoredly berated him for harrassing the clientele. and i thought: it kind of just made my night and everything is going to be fine.