Depression. I joined the happy club nigh on 12 years ago after the nice Dr. Bishop, a hugely respected medical practitioner (I bet nobody asked his patients), insisted that Paxil was just the thing for me. What's that you say, haven't slept or ate in 3 days? Stick with it, it's all my fault when the black dog hunted me down. After roughly 20 days of no sleep and little food, I just wanted to check out, but was persuaded to give it the old college try and go to Emergency where they patched me back up over a few months. I have lived with my new companion pretty much since. He refuses to pay the rent and wants all my attention.
Which brings me to telling old stories; things were alright for the longest time. Happy times like the night in the Apache Motel, Les' girlfriend LouAnne wanting to get more attention than just Les could give her, seeing Travis Mays making 25 straight freethrows in 1990 the year that The Fighting Cougats from Xavier hung one on Georgetown. We saw that too.
Early on, Hugh could never figure me. Nice guy, all the accoutrements such as a bit of cash and the attention of fine ladies having the blackest, most self-destructive moods that he was afraid for my safety. And then the next day I did it all again. DO you think that driving a school bus filled with hyperactive 8-year olds will do the trick? That's what I am thinking of doing.
Film at 11.
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