Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Depression Works for Me...

I just want to say Blog, that every day I become more and more convinced that literary greats were considered great not because of talent and practice, but because of mental unstability. I mean, would you want to read a novel, poem, short story or play written by someone of sound mind and lifestyle? I think not.

Or maybe you would Blog. I really don't know what sort of literature whets your intellectual appetite. But think about it. Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway (tool), Oscar Wilde, Hunter S. Thompson... Think about it Blog...

I only say this because I feel most inspired when I am most depressed/confused/sad/upset/or generally emotional. I can only imagine the shit I'd come up with if I suffered from depression or bipolar disorder or OCD.

And then comes the question, would you rather be depressed all the time and come up with amazing literature or be happy and content with the only drawback in life being the writer's block you suffer because you have achieved mental stability?

Yes, it's possible to have both happiness and literary prowess I guess. You can be happy and write. But really, if that's the case, I'm sure your shit would be ten times better if you were depressed and writing. Or even better, if you were on drugs and writing. Think of one famous musician who's never smoked weed or done cocaine. Think, Blog, think.

That's what I thought. Creativity and brilliance comes from fucked up people.

Really? Is it that healthy to grieve your fiance's death by wearing white all the time? I think not.

Hey! I'm an alcoholic and married to a crazy...

I think we all know what happened here...

"Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again." Then she drowned herself. Perfect.

Drugs. Just... drugs.

Note that if they're not looking incredibly depressed, they're looking a little drunk. I rest my case.

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