It subsided. I'm calmer now. I feel silly now, in retrospect, that I acted that way. It's like being dragged into Hell, or having your brain pulled out of your head and you're made to look at it as it's dragged into Hell - with your eyes still attached.
I was lying down all day yesterday after I finished my short story for uni called The Death of a Clown, which I'll post after I've submitted it to the workshop. And I texted my friend - whom I've known for 13 years - and said:
"Im depressed, will you stab me with some scissors?
To which he replied, after a long joke:
"Wat type of scissors?"
It was funny, but I couldn't reply because I had nothing funny to say and I was debating whether to go out in 3 hours, since I'd been invited to see a band in town called Dirty Tricks.
I went. After deciding if I should drink or not, knowing alcohol is a depressant, I got a double whiskey and coke. Twice. Then realising I'd spent £10 on 2 drinks I thought it would be good to stop. But one of the girls had bought the wrong drink, and after tasting it, realised it was the same as mine, so I took it. I didn't get drunk. It was fun and I left early to got the train home. I didn't feel so heavy anymore. Which was weird. I didn't expect that to happen. I thought I would have been down all night and ruined it and got worse. But no. I feel fine.
I have 33 poems collected to be published into a book. I'm thinking of reaching 40-50 poems. Don't know what to call the book.
I have about 10 short stories.