Tonight it finally struck me how fucking depressed I am.

My sister, who always has the best of intentions, told me I should go out to a restaurant with her and her friends. Me, who always does the stupidest things, said yes.

So we all met at a loud, crowded, smoky, hot, and uncomfortable establishment; you know, the kind of place people go to be “Social,” even though they can’t hear each other above the crowd and the music. I don't see the appeal of places like that. It's hard to socialize when you're all choking and screaming.

I sat sideways in my uncomfortable metal chair because of the cyst on my back that the doctor had liberated the day before. I kept feeling under the back of my shirt, certain that it the blood had soaked through the bandage again.

Sister and friends reminisced about their grade school teachers, high school classes, in-jokes, and rumor mills; none of which I was ever a part of, nor could I even fake interest in.

I looked around the room. I was equally curious and horrified at the thought of seeing someone I knew. I didn’t want to have to explain that I’ve moved back in with my parents after a miserable year in my own apartment, and that I was now unemployed and basically staying in my room all day.

I nursed my soupy margarita and cringed every time I took a sip. Alcohol always aggravates my already prevalent stomach problems. Think of it as never being drunk, but always being hung over.

So there I sat, half in my chair, choking down a bitter drink that burned my throat and stomach, trying to hide my face from imaginary people that I didn’t want to see, and listening to everyone else talk and laugh while I dwelled on how much I hated my current living situation. Right about then was when I thought, “Wow, I’m fucking miserable.”

Oddly enough, this was an average Friday night for me.