The more I thought about the depression critters, the more I realized that they were another example of false advertising. Which is bullshit.
Here are what OTHER campaigns tell me.
This depression ad is supposed to say:
But what it REALLY says is:
But…is it just for us wickedly depressed folks? Nope. Not so much.
Take this Geiko Ad, which is supposed to say:
And one of my all-time favorite campaigns:
And a personal favorite. Who can resist those Charmin Bears?
Yet, what this REALLY says to me is this:
What about this Chick-Fil-A billboard?
It’s supposed to say:
What it REALLY says is this:
And who out there could forget this favorite?
Which, much as I hate to say it, says THIS:
So, Pranksters, what other commercials out there lie?
I feel somehow cheated by my depression. No, not out of “living a full life” or “having fun” or even “being happy,” none of that stupid feely bullshit.
I feel cheated because, like every January that I sink into this pit, I don’t get any of the cool depression critters following me around.
Sure, I have the omnipresent sadness, but do I have a cartoon raincloud following me as I listlessly select some apples at the grocery store? NO. No, Pranksters, I do not.
As much as I’ve tried, I don’t have that wind-up blonde lady toy either. You’d think, with as bone-crushing and soul sucking as it is, I’d probably be at LEAST entitled to that. A wind-up toy in exchange your soul? Seems fair.
I don’t, as much as it pains me to admit this, even have that chokey fuzzy bathrobe, either. I’m not partial to bathrobes, myself, so it’s not a huge loss, but that’s what the commercials say happens when I barely have the energy to slog outta bed and brush my teefers. SO WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT BATHROBE TO CHOKE ME?
But what really fucking pisses me off is that I do not have the Abilify black hole to follow me. I could use a constant companion, like a black blob, to hang out with me while I’m at the doctors, or laying in bed after a nightmare. I had real plans for having him be my BFF. We’d go everywhere together. He’d fetch me soda while I laid on the couch, hating life. He’d rub my feet and offer me pedicures while I sobbed about nothing at all. And what do I have?
I haven’t seen hide nor fucking hair of that black blob since the depression hit.
I’m starting to think that we’re NOT BFF after all. That depression doesn’t come with a cool bathrobe that chokes you to death or a wind-up toy, or even a black blob.
I demand a recount, depression. That’s fucking bullshit.