Good day today. I went out for coffee with the NCWCCC, and it was a blast. Mckenzee, Otter, Matt and Eric–and you read all their webcomics, right?–kept me in stitches for several solid hours. We discussed Rule #34, zombie fetishes, and how to dispose of bodies. And Mckenzee explained what the balloon fetish was to me. I…feel more educated now. I think.

It was a good thing, all around, I left much more cheerful than I arrived. I’ve been a little down this week, obviously–bounced back well, and of course having Angus is a great distraction–but the sky is still leaden and grey and saps the soul with indirect and indistinct lighting, and even my native resilience (which, goddamnit, is bloody epic if I do say so myself–my emotional health may not have much in the way of strength or agility, but its constitution is solid 18s) takes a little time now and again.

To extrapolate from far too small a sample size, I suspect that being really, seriously, majorly depressed leaves one a little bit of an emotional hypochondriac, and as soon as you’re at all down, you get paranoid that you’re depressed again. In actuality, of course, everybody has down days, particularly when one is coming off a dramatic run of misery, and it’s just a sign of normal fluctuation. You just get paranoid.*

Anyway, I’m doin’ pretty well now. Still trying to learn to decipher Angus’s signals–he’s got a piercing yowl, and I don’t know yet what he wants–but they’re both using the main litterbox, and they aren’t fighting over food, despite opportunity. So that’s good!

*I suspect that if you have a lifelong relationship with depression, you may get better at reading the warning signs and can tell a blah day from a slide into despair. May Ganesh preserve me from developing this sort of expertise.