Hey Depression, it's me again. Your good old pal Grace.
You know, it's been a while since we've had to sit down like this and have a little talk. You've been so good about giving me space and only coming around every once in a while, but lately... well, lately, dude, it hasn't been good. You're getting stalkerish. You won't leave, like, EVER.
It's really getting to be a problem.
So yeah, we're having it again, the "it's not you, it's me" talk. Only, it's not me, and it is so totally you. You really need to cut it out already.
Stop leeching the color from my days, and the energy from my bones, and the ideas from my head.
It's not "cute" and it's not helpful. It sucks.
I'm not very into violence; I don't think it solves problems, just goes on to create more. That said, right now I seriously want to punch you in the face. Kick you in the shins. Or the groin. Or all of the above.
Get the fuck away from me, loser. I'm putting out a restraining order.
It's my life. You're not allowed to be a part of it anymore.