If you reach the point at which your Doktor prescribes you two anti-depressants, one prescription painkiller and weekly sessions with a counselor, it's a pretty clear sign that shit ain't working. It's time to admit that while you have worked incredibly hard to set yourself and your life up the way you want it, that shit ain't working. And when shit ain't working to that degree, then there's nothing for it. No tinkering or tweaking will fix something like this.
Time to take this life and scuttle the fucker.
Today I handed to my real estate agent my Notice to Vacate Property. I am become one of a massive diaspora of not youngin's but not oldin's who are returning home to roost. Mum is actually quite excited about it. I don't think she fully grasps what I mean when I say I live a bachelor life.
This will enable me to save money much faster and thus acquire the funding necessary to enable my Cunning Plan.
A good friend I hadn't seen in a while, on discovering I wasn't writing at all and knowing what writing meant to me, asked how I was coping with that.
"I'm on drugs," I said with a laugh. "And moving to another hemisphere."
That's right, kids. The Ultimate Kamakazi Operation: GTFO.
It. Is. On.