I’ve been in the throes of forced depression—holed up in my dark, candlelit writing cave; listening to the new Radiohead, song #2, on repeat; and drinking excessive amounts of coffee. I cut out cream, BTW, which only adds to the forced depression, and most likely my smart ass comments on Twitter.

Why? Because this is how I write heartbreak (not the cream part, that decision was wholly based on caloric intake, you know, with the 25 cups of coffee per day and all).

I channel my moody college days, unrequited love, cheating boyfriends, and my need for Zima and cheese fries with ranch.

Then…I dig deep. I think about the assholes of my past, and I remember not only the tears and the rejection, but the physical pain. Hunger from not eating. Headaches from crying. Hangovers.

Then, I think about the metaphorical pain that, let’s face it, isn’t all that metaphorical. How the heartache felt. The emptiness in the pit of my stomach. The stabbing ache in my gut. The suffocation, the anxiety, the tightened chest and closed throat. Metaphorical? Puh-lease.

o-DIANNA-AGRON-facebookI cry. Then, I write. And hopefully, eventually, you’ll cry too. Or maybe you’ll just think I dated the wrong guys. Which is true.

Thus, I haven’t written a blog in a while. Which brings me to today. I need a break. I turned on the lights and went back to Hello, I Love You. I skipped the coffee in lieu of a nice DRY French Rosé, for later of course *checks time* maybe in another hour…it is Friday after all.

And, I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but I may even go outside today! Stranger things have happened.

Then tomorrow, when my teenager is knee deep in being grounded, and my husband is out playing with his brother, I’ll shut down again. Scare my poodle. Dream of cheese fries. With ranch. In the dark.

In my younger angsty days, I could wake up in this state. Gloomy as Eeyore, ready to annoy my roommates and piss off my friends. But now, it’s a transformation, which is good, I guess. LOL.

A necessary one, if I want to go for the jugular, which I do.

So, I’m curious. Do you write sad? What does it take you to get there? Can you just turn it on and off? Let me know.

Love, Blue in Texas.