Oh. I didn't kill myself last night.

Yea. I'm alive. Sorry about that. I received a few concerned direct messages this afternoon regarding something I tweeted last night. It was My So-Called Life quote. Specifically, "There's something about Sunday night that just makes you want to kill yourself." - Angela Chase. I can see how that, added with the fact that I didn't write a post today, go to work or explain any of this, could be interpreted as slightly suicidal. It was an appropriate enough quote though, considering I'm in the midst of a personal MSCL marathon and it was Sunday night and I was totally depressed. But not depressed in like a I'm-going-to-kill-myself-and-post-it-on-Twitter kind of way. More in like a I-can't-fall-asleep-so-I'm-going-to-tweet-this-delightfully-appropriate-My So-Called-Life-quote kind of way. Although if I were going to kill myself, I would totally want to go out on a MSCL quote. That seems sort of perfectly emotional and ironic.

But yea, I'm fine. I'm sitting in a Starbucks actually. Just kickin' it. Enjoying the air conditioning and a hot latte. Watching a man who looks suspiciously like Murray from Flight of the Conchords drink a frappachino. Trying not to stare too hard at this smokin' hot guy who just walked in and interpret the fact that my ipod shuffle just landed on The Pixies "Here Comes Your Man" as a sign that he's my one special someone. I've pretty much never been better.

Last night was fucking rough though. Boss #2 comes back from vacation today and I couldn't stop thinking about how hard that's going to suck. Because she's so obviously going to spend her first day back passive-aggressively blaming me for everything that went wrong while she was away. And these will be things that I had abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with. And this is all just too much time spent courtesy-smiling and fighting the urge to be snarky, all the while wishing she'd leave faster so I can get back to my MSCL marathon because the next episode is when Rayanne betrays Angela and has sex with Jordan Catalano. ANDOHMYGIGGLES!

Mostly as I layed in bed last night night, I couldn't stop thinking about the burned-out light bulb behind the backsplash of the wetbar. I have no idea how to change it, nor do I know who to contact about getting it changed. I only noticed it Friday afternoon as I was getting ready to leave, but was all Oh Swells! TGIF! about it and figured I'd get to it sometime this week. I should have emailed someone about it then and there. Because now Boss #2 is going to find it and ask me if I noticed it was out. And I'm going to have to be all, "Oh! I didn't see that! Hah..." and feel completely fucking stupid while she stands there staring at it for 20 minutes shaking her head slowly wondering what exactly it is that I do all day long. Damnit. I should have fucking emailed someone. I hate myself.

And this kept me up until 4:30ish. Tossing and turning. But not killing myself. Sorry about that.

One time Senior year, my roommate Danielle very seriously thought I had killed myself. Again, I can see how it looked that way. I had been in the design lab all weekend struggling with a project and just generally hating life when I finally came home to take a nap. The problem with trying to keep your body up for long periods of time by pumping it with adrenaline, coffee, glue fumes and god knows what else you can get your hands on, is that when you finally do have time to sleep, you can't. It's a sick, sick joke. But, I came home, went into my room, turned off the lights, lit one of my Jesus candles, turned on my "Super Duper Relaxing" playlist, put a pillow over my head to block out the light coming in from the blinds and finally dozed off.

A little later, Danielle (who knew I was going through "a time,") came in and discovered this scene: me laying on my bed with a pillow over my head, arms stretched lifelessly out to the side, in a pitch-black room with only a creepy and ominous Jesus candle lit and The Smith's "Sing Me to Sleep" coming from my computer. And Lord knows I'm not the most stable table on the showroom floor, so I can see how this might have been slightly upsetting. I woke up to her standing directly above me, eyes as big as dinner plates:

Danielle: ...........Hey.
Me: ...Hey.
Danielle: ......................How are you?
Me: Pretty good thanks...you?
Danielle: ...............................Fine.
Me: So...what's up?
Danielle: Um. It sort of completely looks like you tried to kill yourself.
Me: [Surveys current state of affairs] Point taken.

Co-Blogger Chris came home one night when we lived together to a similar scene. It was a Friday night and I decided to be lame and stay in. I got Thai food, baked a cake and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (my go-to cry movie). I don't care how Aspie's this is going to sound, but that night was fucking awesome. Chris came home later and found me in the dark, curled up on the couch, hysterically crying. If I recall correctly, he turned on a light, stared at me for a few seconds and deadpanned, "Uh...Do I need to call a Suicide Hotline or something?" That boy is a saint.

So again, I'm fine. Thank you for your concern. I woke up this morning after 45 minutes of sleep and decided to take the day off. I just can't deal with that angry little Mexican when I haven't had my eight-hours. Please don't judge me.