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Cure For Melancholy


When seized by a fit of the sads, the best route for dealing with the listlessness of melancholy is, in this order: crouching under your umbrella on the balcony, trying not get wet while you smoke, watching Jackie Aina put on makeup through your tears; remember there are zero carbs in residence and determine to go and buy some despite the fucking deluge outside and the wind you can hear whistling past the windows; put on a full trench coat over your hoodie, trying to reconcile yourself to the fact that it is summer; wipe stray tears as you lock up the house and get into the lift; come back up to unlock the house five minutes later because you forgot your umbrella, because it wasn’t in its usual place, be-fucking-cause you were smoking under it on the balcony earlier entirely due to the fact that it hasn’t stopped raining since you woke up; return to your path out into the world, less tearfully this time; feel shook at how windy and cold and rainy and just miserable it is outside.

At this point, you pause to make a video for your friend while you walk down the street and you feel a bit better by the time it is done.

Melancholy, though.

The way the streets have flooded is depressing and ruining your shoes but the cure for a sads fit continues: get absolutely drenched on your way to Sainsbury’s; overwhelmed by the sads in the shop, recklessly buy a tin of Pringles and a packet of five little cream-filled chocolate cake rolls things and determine to eat them all when you return home; misstep into a puddle on the way home and try not to cry when your socks squish faintly in your shoes; realise that by the time you get home you can’t feel anything anymore, just cold and wet; shed your damp clothing and spend the next twenty minutes waterlogging in a hot shower; emerge out of the shower feeling something, but it isn’t the melancholy anymore, you’re just hungry; make an egg, put it on a bagel with Branston fucking Pickle.

Buy a yoga mat.