Mad Women

Here. In J’s apartment uptown. Drinking prosecco. Prepping for the Season Five premiere of Mad Men. After a tea party in L’s honor.

And I just want to go home and feel sorry for myself and email my therapist and cry and cry and cry until there’s no fluid left in my body and I fall asleep for months.

I wish I could show my friends how fucking depressed I am in a way that would make me feel better, but I can’t. So I just stare blankly and drink as much as I can without igniting suspicion and feeling the fierce bite of anger inside my chest with every word said and every action made.

Save me. Cure me. help me.


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