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STILL: A STORY OF DEPRESSION by John Henry 12 Oct 2021

If it brings you comfort to believe this is just a short story and not
a desperately downtrodden human being talking out loud because keeping
all this inside is killing me, go ahead. While ordinarily I’d break it
up into smaller pages, I think this one needs to be taken in as a
piece.

This is not an easy read. Mine has not been an easy life. My story
includes memories of sexual abuse and the trauma it created, and the
murder of a four year old child, among other less-than-happy subjects.
If that’s too much for you, don’t read it. Believe me, I understand.

That said: Feeling very “I might be done,” here. Maybe not. Probably
not. But I’m sure exhausted of a decade-plus of doing this and maybe
one person in every hundred million listening or caring. At this point
continuing to ask for people’s support just feels like I’m taking money
away from better, more effective content. Or at least content that is
nice and safe and comfortable for folks so nobody will have to strain
themselves thinking hard enough to avoid the extinction of the species
and that way when we all die we’ll be wrapped in a comfortable delusion
and can pretend it’s not happening or we couldn’t have stopped it.

I mean I thought I was doing good work, but I’m…let’s see here, 2
seasons of IMR at 25 eps per season, plus 25 eps of After Dark, plus 34
episodes of Progress Report, plus we’re up to the 10th ep of season 3
of In My Room, so that’s 119 scheduled shows I’ve put up, roughly
totalling 150 hours of video, since the middle of April.

That 150 hours constitutes probably 1500 hours of research, writing,
video editing, building templates, and so forth. I literally don’t do
anything else, other than maybe once or twice a year I’ll feel like
I’ve got fifteen bucks to spare and sign up for a month of SWTOR or
ESO, mostly just to feel like I’ve GOT something.

Every waking moment of my life is *somehow* engaged in content
creation, just about. If we average out all the support I’ve taken in
since April, I’m making just about 1.30 per hour of work, and that’s
probably generous.

I’ve begged, I’ve cried, I’ve run myself homeless multiple times. I’ve
been driven to the point of seriously contemplating suicide more than I
can count…and I’ve been contemplating it a little too seriously and too
often again lately. Like several times daily. And I’m medicated; this
isn’t the “mental illness” talking, it’s fifty years of constant
disappointment, fifty years of Lucy Van Pelt holding whatever football
and me ending up on my ass every time I go for the kick. The pressure
and harassment are factors in my not finishing my degree; they’re
factors in my inability to keep a job; they’re factors in my
depression. And even describing why would take another post twice this
long and you wouldn’t believe it if I did because it’s the result of
being stalked for years by multiple raving lunatics, so of course it’s
f’n nuts.

When I was twelve years old, my half-sister brutally murdered my niece
(this is public record you can check yourself if you have access to
LEXIS-NEXUS: Texas v. Laird, 1983. I warn you now DO NOT READ THE
DETAILS). While the adults around me were assuming that it didn’t
effect me because the ones who weren’t self-absorbed jerks were deeply
steeped in “just don’t think about it and it’ll go away” thinking – was
before my dad got sober – what really happened is I made up my mind
then and there to try to protect people, keep them safe, do everything
I can with the considerable gifts I was graced with at birth to make
the world a better place in every way…and as far as I can tell by the
evidence, at best I might have said a kind word at the right time for
an individual, once in a while…and given the state of folks’ lives, I
didn’t do it enough or to the right people, because I sure wish some
folks had heard me when I said “I love you, and I think you’re making a
mistake.”

Yeah, that’s where all this messiah complex and vulnerability to
damsels in distress come from: the memory of a four year old who was
brutally beaten to death for splashing water in the tub because her
mother was a useless psycho junkie and so was her mother’s useless
psycho junkie boyfriend. I’m sparing you a whole lot of very ugly
details here. You’re welcome; nobody spared me.

(They both live fine, by the way. Neither served more than a few
years, and both get most of their bills subsidized while I’m out here
starving and homeless. My murdering sister has a home and I don’t. My
murdering sister has a car and I don’t. My murdering sister knows she’s
gonna eat a week from now and I don’t. Because in Texas, child safety
is our number one priority.)

So I developed a messiah complex and after a couple of decades of
activism here and there in between playing rock star, I decided to get
serious. Started doing real writing, creating video content that was
relevant and informative.

And the end result: four years of trump, millions of people too stupid
and arrogant to save their own lives let alone anyone else’s,
destitution, crippling self-doubt and self-loathing, pretty much every
serious friendship I’ve ever had faded off into the woodwork like Homer
Simpson backing into the bushes. Mainly, I ended up getting used by a
lot of people who “needed” me, right up until they didn’t. Hooboy, THAT
story. Friends, family…I mean I can’t trust anyone anymore, not even
the people I was born with care about me any further than they think
I’m gonna be rich and famous so they have to pretend not to loathe me
so they can get in my wallet when I “remember all the little people.”
Everybody’s your best friend when they think it’s gonna pay off. It’s
amazing how readily I can tell when someone’s decided that I’m not
gonna “make it” fast enough to make the effort of pretending to give a
damn about me worthwhile; the only thing more amazing is how
consistently my traitors believe themselves to be operating in secret
and that I’m surprised at their betrayal. What’s not surprising in the
least is every single one of them will swear to all that’s holy that
they’re just a wonderful perfect picture-book story of normality and I
must just be paranoid. Maybe an egomaniac, thinking people think about
me when I’m not there. The nerve.

I’ve become almost entirely useless as an adult; all I do is starve
trying to save the world, or starve trying to save myself.

I have poured my life into this, and at this point the folks who
*have* supported me are just getting slapped in the face. Rather than
elevating everyone, we just end up in the same sinking boat. That hurts
me more than you can imagine, that so many strangers who have shown so
much more kindness and decency than nearly anyone in my world ever who
was *supposed* to be kind and decent are just getting their asses
kicked too, and now I’m helping make that happen because I’m taking
their money.

I don’t know what to do anymore because I don’t want to walk away and
let people feel like there’s no hope, I don’t want to give up and leave
people feeling like there’s no point (or that this was all just some
really incompetent grifting scheme). I don’t want to give up on my
country, my culture, my people, my world that I love. I don’t want to
give up on the Beatles and Led Zeppelin and Steely Dan; I don’t want to
give up on Stephen King and Robert Heinlein and Robert R. McCammon; I
don’t want to give up on Basquiat and Scott-Heron and Billie Holliday
and Janis Joplin and Public Enemy and Metallica and Thought Industry
and Days of Rage and trippin’ balls on the beach in South Haven while I
watch the sunset, play my guitar, and enjoy the company of a beloved
friend or trusted lover. I don’t want to give up on Broadway, the
Golden Gate. I want millions of people who never heard of me to be able
to enjoy that long boring, stinky-assed drive through the Nebraska corn
on I-80 just like I did. I want people to be able to lay on their back
in the desert or on the beach and look at the stars and imagine. I
don’t want to give up on sunsets and the pure joyful laugh of a child,
the feeling of sunlight on my skin in the spring, the smell of the
crisp arctic air of the Michigan winters, the taste of a good steak
even though it’s been…shit, at least three years since I’ve had one.
Impossible steaks for my vegan friends and eventually for everyone as
we phase out of the inherent cruelty of raising live animals only to
kill them for food.

But I’m so tired you guys. Every day I wake up and the first coherent
set of thoughts that enters my head is the realization that I’m a
fifty-one year old man who can’t support himself living in a ghetto
boarding room and about to lose THAT because I can’t afford the rent,
and then the real fun starts because that’s just the META-suck. The
second thought is usually some variant of “yeah, no chance in hell
you’re ever going to have a partner again, who the hell would want to
be with a loser like you?” Then I still have to slog through all the
other sucking going on around here. I break down crying irregularly and
sometimes without a prompt, sometimes over silly shit, sometimes over
obvious triggers. Have done while writing this; am now.

But sometimes it’s just a thought – the family I’ll never see again
because they don’t want me for reasons of their own selfishness,
cowardice, and ego; the lovers and friends I’ve tried to help and
failed; leaving them to whatever hell I couldn’t pull them out of; how
sad my lil buddy with the cute little crush is that “the only person
who makes her feel safe” isn’t around anymore and there’s nothing she
or he can do about it.

How sad I am that the only person who makes her feel safe isn’t around
anymore. How sad I am that nobody, ever, has made ME feel safe. Because
I’m the guy with the cape, I’m here to help. I don’t NEED help. And
that’s all right, as long as the cape works, but I can’t keep it up on
my own. I’ve got damn near everything a person needs…except access to
real funds, and it seems that in spite of my whole LIFE being spent
trying to break that paradigm, just find ONE TIME in my life that I’ve
got anything like enough cash to really DO anything other than keep my
car fueled up and insured so I can make it to another job I don’t want
but have to take, I have failed.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I know the things I say and tell
people are true and right. I know my reasoning is sound and my
positions well-taken. I know I’m good at what I do.

The people who were supposed to be my support system never have been.
My dad just didn’t know how – he tried, he’s the closest thing to
normal in my immediate family because he was merely an alcoholic – and
my ma, love her, was just plain broken and frankly probably should have
been institutionalized for an extended period of time under intense
psychiatric treatment before she was allowed to have kids. To one
former sister I’m a stranger and always will be; to another, a dark
secret she denies because it’s okay to destroy my life by letting
everyone think I’m a pervert so you don’t have to admit to the world
you and your little teenage girlfriends were molesting me when I was
too young to even remember when it started because hey it’s 1973 and
he’s such a little cutie look at those bedroom eyes he’s gonna be a
little heartbreaker. Yeah, that whole rant I occasionally go on about
the way we casually sexualize kids? Surprise, there’s a REASON I feel
that way.

Then when she got caught my parents in their infinite wisdom just went
“yeah, separated” with no explanation at all to me – granted I was four
at the time, but they already knew I was well ahead of the class by
that point, they could have explained.

But instead all I knew was that my sister didn’t love me anymore –
major abandonment issues, anyone? – and in due course, she proved that
to be the case, when it came time for her to own up to her shit. Then
it’s all innocence and light and I can’t imagine where he learned such
a thing at his age. Besides, we all know that little boys don’t get
molested, and DEFINITELY they don’t get molested by teenage girls in
groups, and DEFINITELY DEFINITELY if they do, they like it so it’s not
abuse and therefore no offense was committed.

You don’t need the gory details, but I’d learned and internalized all
of this before I was in second grade. Some folks will recall me talking
about the first time I thought about suicide, I was four years old. I
still remember it: sitting on the back of my parents’ maroon ’68
four-door Impala, singing “Seasons In The Sun” by Terry Jacks, crying
my four year old eyes out because I had to leave and I was gonna miss
everyone.

I’ve never told anyone – never *realized* until a recent conversation
with a fellow survivor cause the sequence to fall in place, it may be
the one thing I ever “blocked out” – that the day that happened was the
day my parents found out what was happening and made it stop…because my
sister didn’t love me anymore and nobody would tell me why and that
meant all the love I knew in the world (my mom tried, but her idea of
“love” was forcing me to let her hug me after she beat hell out of me,
obviously to make herself feel better but ostensibly because this is
“discipline” and “I love you” *shudder*) was gone forever and I
couldn’t understand why. They would get mad if I even asked.

Four. And. A. Fucking. Half. And I can still remember it so clearly I
can tell you what the weather was like and what time of year it was, 47
years later. And even though I’ve listened to the song maybe twenty
times in my life since, I still know all the words. The part about
telling “papa” goodbye just fuckin killed me, still does:

"Goodbye Papa, please pray for me I was the black sheep of the family
You tried to teach me right from wrong Too much wine and too much song
Wonder how I got along Goodbye Papa it’s hard to die When all the birds
are singing in the sky Now that the spring is in the air Little
children everywhere When you see them, I’ll be there We had joy, we had
fun We had seasons in the sun But the wine and the song Like the
seasons have all gone"

I’m pretty sure she thinks I’ve forgotten about all of that, but I
haven’t. I have NO MEMORY of a time in my life when I didn’t know how
to please a woman because I learned how literally before I learned to
wipe my own ass. You don’t “get over” that – you get super fucked up in
the head and either end up burning out, flaking out, or – if you’re
lucky – getting just better enough to survive.

And by the way, yeah I fucking DID feel all that, and yeah I DID
understand those lyrics and what they meant. A goddamned four and a
half year old kid who has internalized regret and sorrow, loss and
departure, the ineffable march of time and the inevitable ending that
we all meet eventually.

You catching on that whole “gifted child” bit isn’t a bunch of crap I
made up yet? I doubt anyone who reads this will even credit it;
they’re normal and in the normal world four year old boys just aren’t
that smart.

But I was.

GEE NOW ADD ALL THAT UP AND WONDER WHY JH ALWAYS ENDS UP GOING FOR THE
YOUNGER WOMEN, HUH? Wonder why I’m as much a 14 year old girl as a
fifty-one year old man, emotionally, still believing in that one true
love, still believing that somewhere out there is someone to love me
now that I’ve got enough sanity to appreciate and respect it, still
believing that if I work really hard and try my best to do the right
thing and make the world better, I’ll be allowed to have a few basic
human comforts like a roof over my head, or sheets, or a vehicle that
runs, or actual friends who actually respect me as more than a
potential meal-ticket/social rub. But no, it’s probably just because
he’s a fuckup and a pervert. Wonder why JH can’t manage a healthy
relationship? Must be because he’s an asshole. Couldn’t have ANYTHING
to do with having pretty much every psychological mechanism that
healthy relationships rely on ripped out of me and crushed under the
heel of ignorant parents and a sociopathic teenage horndog who couldn’t
keep her mitts out of my diaper.

Yeah, me too. Starting pretty much the day I was born, as far as I can
tell; like I said, I have NO memory, AT ALL, of being sexually
innocent. None. Now I’m walking around with all this shit in me all my
life.

I went through addiction and abusive relationships, and I yanked
myself out of that shit. I went through depression and suicide, and
although – as I’ve said – I still struggle with the thoughts, I also
know they’re just thoughts (or at least I like to believe I do; I hope
that’s all they ever are, then I think “Cornell”) – I managed to
survive that too. And yeah, even though I don’t talk about it, I’ve
tried. More than once. Been a long while, but I have.

I survived that. I didn’t just *survive* it, I managed to break EVERY
stereotype, in time. Even the ones I got caught up in for a minute,
like being an abusive cokehead, I broke in due course.

Not because I got arrested, not because I was threatened, not because
I was trying to satisfy someone else’s demands; because I looked at
myself and forced myself to admit that I not only didn’t like what I
saw, I’d be a piece of garbage forever if I didn’t change it.

So I did. Took all the bad shit out of me, piece by piece, over a
period of now twenty-plus years. I didn’t date, seriously or casually,
for almost 19 years because I didn’t want to risk inflicting myself on
anyone until I knew I had myself in line and wasn’t going to just fall
right back into the same shit. I ripped apart my own head and heart to
understand the gap between who I was inside and who I acted like
outside, and eliminate it.

Because THE REVOLUTION YOU’RE LOOKING FOR STARTS IN THE MIRROR.

So now here I am. I’ve given a huge chunk of my life (and completely
sacrificed my employability or really any realistic chance of ever even
having a stable address or income again), and in the end all it’s done
is made my life shit and accomplished nothing. Nobody hears me when I
say you need to break the clickbait habit. Nobody hears me when I say
you can’t let the DNC tell you who you want to vote for by threatening
you with the worst of the GOP. Nobody hears me when I say if we all
stop putting up with this shit, none of us will have to put up with
this shit. Instead we choose to put up with the shit while making big
noise on social media like we’re angry rebels, and guess who’s the only
dumbass left that actually believed and lived by what he was saying and
now can’t survive?

I really love and appreciate so much all the support that I’ve had
from strangers and folks who just happened on me over the years. But
there’s a pattern there, too: I starve starve starve, then I’ll have a
handful of new folks show up and they try their best but nobody else
helps so they get burned out or hit their spending limit or whatever,
and then I’m starving again. Can’t ever get people together all at
once, you know, so the five here, ten there, twenty there actually adds
up and becomes something that’ll get me more than a few packs of ramen
from the nearest store. And I’m NOT trying to denigrate or devalue that
five or ten or twenty. That five or ten or twenty like to save my life
more than once…but holy shit am I sick of always needing my life saved.
After a while it’s like why bother? Not like I’m accomplishing
anything. Michael Moore isn’t hitting me up to make documentaries,
Rachel Maddow isn’t interested in interviewing me about the forty-year
coup we’re in the middle of, and Trevor Noah is not impressed by my
sharp with and engaging personality. Nobody I’ve ever really loved is
still around, in terms of family and partners. We didn’t elect Sanders,
we haven’t created a universal health care or education system, we
haven’t expanded social welfare programs to provide real help, we
haven’t started insisting that our medical professionals understand
medical things like viruses, and we haven’t started insisting that our
teaching professionals understand educational things like how to think
in a straight line. I haven’t reduced racism, sexism, homophobia, or
transphobia. I haven’t solved any hunger problems, haven’t gotten any
homeless people off the streets, haven’t induced anyone to take a good
look at themselves and be better. Raised ten grand for a desperate
single mom who promptly forgot my phone number as soon as the check was
cashed, and that’s about it.

Because I do this shit out of conviction – because it matters and
needs doing – rather than “to get rich and famous,” I lose, every
time…and I’m dying here. Literally dying. When this started I was in my
thirties. Now I’m in my fifties. and I’ve accomplished nothing other
than letting a few groveling scam artists and power-felchers like Omar
Rivera and Lou Colagiovanni laugh at me as they rake in the bucks
blowing smoke up your ass because they really don’t much care if this
country lasts one minute longer than their lives. I destroyed my feet
and can’t walk without pain anymore because RAWRGETTAJOB. I’m a
punching bag for every underpaid halfwit having a bad day at Facebook.

I think it might be time for me to face the reality that I’m just not
very good at any of this and by vast majority people really don’t give
a shit what I think or why.

I don’t know what to do anymore, but I hurt and I’m sad and I hate my
life and I hate the world I live in and I’ve been trying to make it
better since I was nine years old and that was 42 years ago and I’m
TIRED. It’d be okay if I felt like I was accomplishing something,
making a real difference, but I don’t. I can’t even get fucking
antifascists to help push back against a flat-out fascist invasion of a
small town, and I’m *am*, literally, “Antifa” on this platform. If you
search for “Antifa” on facebook and find a page called “Antifa,” that’s
the page I started. And even THEY couldn’t be bothered to so much as
raise their hand and offer a little advice in dealing with an organized
and violent fascist takeover of a small town.

So where the hell do I get off continuing to put myself out as someone
who’s gonna make a difference when I obviously am not making a
difference? And how the hell am I supposed to keep doing any of this
when I’ve got to stop every other day to raise money for the next bill
because apparently people think if you’re “not starving” you’re
“wealthy” so the minute I say “ok, I got that bill paid” people outside
the core just shrug and go “oh, well then, guess you don’t need my
help,” and people inside the core are tapped out.

I just don’t know how much longer I can keep this fight up. It’s been
fifty fuckin YEARS, man. Abused by my family in every possible way
right up until the last “sibling” assholed themselves permanently out
of my world, rejected socially from the minute I started kindergarten,
bullied, beaten down, pushed into jobs I don’t want to satisfy the
demands of people who don’t have to bear the consequences of those
demands, malicious employers who fire me when my new meds cause my
filters to slip (and they were told ahead of time that might happen)
but get away with it because “right to work state,” when do I get just
ONE real break, ONE real chance? Never. Just half-measures and the best
other folks who are just as fucked as I am can do, and the rest of the
world – the entitled, privileged world that never has to worry about
where they’re gonna get their next meal or sleep or how they’re going
to live – just keeps on derping along until we’re all dead, and you
know those bastards will blame us for it with their last breath.

So yeah. I don’t know where I’m at right now other than in the middle
of the most profound depression I’ve felt in years – and a lot of it
has been sitting in the back of my head waiting because I don’t have
the luxury of the time to process ongoing trauma for the last year and
there’s been plenty of it – and I really don’t know what tomorrow
holds. Maybe this is all just a big steam blowoff and I’ll be right
back in the saddle at 2 eastern for Progress Report…or maybe I’ll sell
this webcam for twenty bucks so I can maybe buy some shampoo and
conditioner or any one of the other ten thousand things people take for
granted and assume everyone has, that I don’t.

And right now what I don’t have, frankly, is much reason to keep
breathing and a strong sense that there are a whole lot of people I
really care about who have long wished I’d fuckin stop so they can just
get on with the little performative social crap pretending they care
I’m gone and then get on with the important work of forgetting I was
ever here.

Mental illness sucks…but this isn’t mental illness. This is a shitty
world that’s been shitting on my head since five seconds after I was
born. Literally the only thing I’ve ever had going for me, I was born
with. And no, I’m not “feeling sorry for myself.” I’m just finally
telling you how I really feel and what life is really like in here,
because I can’t stand it anymore and if I don’t tell someone I likely
will end up saying fuck it and heading for the clearing at the end of
the path. I don’t know when I’ll be back, and I don’t even know if I’m
leaving. But aside from politics, social issues, and all the other
shit…this is what is in my head, 24/7, all day every day, while I’m out
here putting the face on and trying to stay positive and make good
things happen for other people (or at least stop bad things from
happening to them), and I’m just not sure I can take it anymore on top
of all the struggling to survive and make it through another day not
knowing where ANY of my life needs are coming from.

I sure hope folks like Matt Kerry and Omar Rivera and all the other
giant page owners who got their little ego rush blackballing me a
decade ago and rigging FB’s algorithms to treat everything I do as
“abuse” like a bunch of pissant middle-schoolers picking dodgeball
teams are proud of what they’ve wrought. Or the founding editor at
Reverb Press who showed up on my FB page totally at random a few years
ago – I’d never spoken to or even heard of this person – to explain to
me that my parents deserved to spend the last years of their lives
being hassled by internet trolls because I’m not a good little boy and
tell people things that make them less susceptible to the clickbait
business model that’s made you all rich at the tiny expense of helping
to completely fucking destroy everything good and decent about this
country and this species. And I told y’all what they were, and you
made them rich. Kerry’s mostly out of the game and happily chilling in
his million dollar Chicago condo, having deliberately destroyed my
life, and I’m starving…and he’s the one who gets invited to the
political insider crap because frankly the whole goddamned business is
99% those people, people who strap on an ideological label they think
will make them money and pimp it for all it’s worth without the
slightest consideration of the incredible – immeasurable – damage
they’re doing to the world around them in the process. Omar’s
perennially trying to suck up to the DNC so they’ll run him as a
candidate…and he sucks up by pumping their propaganda and talking
points at you while pretending to be “independent media.” That dude
doesn’t fart without the DNC telling him what note to hit.

But they’re rolling in money and fortune and fame, and I’m starving
and contemplating my own end, again. You sure showed me.
Congratulations to everyone who pitched in on that effort (and it took
a couple dozen of you to do the damage before it was all said and
done.) Hope you’re proud.

<obligatory drive-by from one of the above-named to assert that it’s
really just that my work is shit and that’s why they don’t share it
goes HERE, because kicking people while they’re down is a specialty of
the “liberal,” “left-wing” gatekeepers and powermongers on Facebook>

So yeah. I’m depressed, but I’m also sad and exhausted and at the end
of my rope. At this point, it’d be more rewarding to just stop eating
until I quietly fail to wake up than to bother continuing this sick
farce of an attempt to be a decent person and make a difference.

That’s what depression feels like. That’s what I’m living with in my
head every minute of every day, to some degree, and lately it’s been to
a far greater degree than I’m comfortable with…because that idea, of
just going to bed and never bothering to wake back up, is far more
attractive to me right now than it has any business being. This is the
reality behind thousands of harassment pages and a dozen years of
sociopaths convincing you all that I’m not worth paying attention to.

Good thing I’m too chickenshit to actually follow through, huh?

And all that needed to happen is people who say they like what I do,
tell other people. The most basic shit I’ve been asking for a decade:
like, share, comment, subscribe. People will do that all day long for
YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS ONE WEIRD TRICK TO A 17-INCH PENIS AND TRILLION
DOLLAR BANK ACCOUNT, but not for work they claim to enjoy and support.

I guess it’s time I accepted that the many, many thousands of you who
have seen my work and not spread it around just think I suck and should
shut up.

And the way I feel right now, I just might. But probably not; what
else am I gonna do?

And in spite of all of that, in spite of having every solid reason to
turn into a raging hate-filled bastard…in spite of the loathing I feel
toward some particular individuals, the truth is that for everyone,
even if I’ll never LIKE you, even if I’ll never RESPECT you, even if I
will go to any length to avoid communicating with you because your
existence is obnoxious to me… …I love you, still.

Read more at:
https://johnhenry.us/blog/2021/10/12/still-a-story-of-depression/

[Scott Oaf - (I'm really Chudnozzle)]

]v[etaphoid <m...@phoid.con> wrote in
]news:mn.32437e5bcd...@phoid.con:

> STILL: A STORY OF DEPRESSION by John Henry 12 Oct 2021
>

<flush>

Why hasn't Jimmy Carter built him a house? (With a studio, of course.)

This is the question floating through the minds of the concerned
citizens of the world.

Chef him now!

PS: The subject line wins RSPW for the month.