When My Depression elopes with a hermit crab, I have no qualms whatsoever, but I also have no name for it.
The Hermit and My Depression honeymoon on a choppy Central American coast, but quickly decide to buy a cozy, sea cave condo where the two of them take turns lovingly interrogating each other, letting the salt water douse their doubts and quibbles.
Whenever My Depression starts to fold itself, cowering under an impressive volcanic rock, The Hermit scuttles over to My Depression, eyes piping hot-black and full of anticipation.
The Hermit says, Darling, Sweetheart, Light of my Life, we’ve been through all this before. The best way to shake it is to stand up, move, call someone, turn on a light.
All My Depression hears or sees, though, is The Hermit gnawing on sea bubbles, words coming out as Bloop Bloop Bloop.
The Hermit goes on, legs feeling a little rubbery all of a sudden: For God’s sake, I know we don’t have cellphones down here, or light switches, but the experts know what they know because they’re experts!
Bloop Bloop Bloop-bloop, is what My Depression hears.
The Hermit tosses a nonexistent lock of hair off its shell-skull, continuing, I admit I’m confused, and disappointed, again. Is it all right to share this? After all, we’re betrothed.
The word betrothed makes My Depression see a sheet of black migraine sprockets.
Remember when we first met, how we frolicked in the sticky sand, so connected and in-tune? It made me feel like I’d swallowed the sun. I’d never been so happy.
My Depression yanks on its eyebrows like a bored simpleton, and when nothing gives, My Depression does a vicious jerk to its head of sea hair, pulling out a clump, bloody roots floating away with the tide.
What I’m saying, The Hermit says, is it seems like you’ve changed,
What I’m saying is, I don’t know if we’re working out together anymore. As a thing, I mean. A couple.
Now The Hermit has a hard time looking My Depression in the eyes, yet still manages to say, It’s probably me, not you, though it sure seems like, in this case, it’s all you. I’ve collected circumstantial evidence to prove it.
My Depression tilts its ear in the direction of its other ear but merely hears, BloopBloopBloopBloopBloop.
The Hermit throws up its faux claws, which are really more like stumpy toenails painted black, and says, You’re not saying Jack. Where are your words, Depression? Talk to me. I need to know how you feel.
Okay, that’s it. I can’t do this anymore, even though it’s only been something, like, 19 hours.
Last chance, Depression. Kiss me like you mean it. Like you really mean it. If you do, well, maybe there’s still hope for us.
The soles of My Depression’s pruned feet start to twitch and shake, sand coiling up from the bottom of the sea cave, as if unleashing a spirit, a sea sprite, or just a regular old-fashioned genie.
Although it’s not My Depression at all, but rather a succession of enormous slaps, each as large as castles, beating down from above.
The Hermit is blinded by swirling bits of grit and broken shells.
Shit! I can’t see! We’re fucked!
Darkness and ugliness are My Depression’s best friends, two pals he can tell anything to, and he’s unbothered by the ruckus.
My Depression sways through the broiling murk, finds The Hermit choking on nasty sea detritus, and performs a slick Heimlich maneuver. Before The Hermit can say Thanks or Bloop, My Depression takes The Hermit’s hand firmly, and like sleeping otters, the pair float through a seam in the sea cave, drifting past their hometown surf, past the Pacific and Atlantic and Adriatic and Indian oceans, past every sea in the world, and any others yet to be imagined.