Confessions of Depression

Pulling my past out of overloaded shelves and drawers is like pulling out my guts. It's the good, the bad, the ugly--the things I wanted to remember but had forgotten, the things I wanted to forget, but now remember.
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I'd knock over a bank if I could get away with it. Money makes the world go 'round, and  I want some of it. In fact, I want a lot of it. I want to pay off my kid's student loans and set him and his family up in a house of their own, and I want to make repairs around my own house and, yes, I want to buy those expensive orthotics for my aching feet and get some Juvederm on the side so I'll look really good when I attend my family reunion.
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I want to use my GPS, but don't know how to. A woman at my doctor's office was going to show me, but not realizing a cell phone was necessary, I hadn't come equipped.
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Going through the stacks of papers in my office, I found a spiral notebook from years ago in which I had recorded about three weeks worth of dreams, dreams in which I was belittled, berated, ignored, or deserted. Dreams in which I finally realized I had to go it alone.
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I also discovered a complete copy of one of my first novels, The Virgin Vampire. It was never in the book stores, of course, because back then one had to have an agent and a publisher, and I had no idea how to attract either one. I love my story, but now the story is thirty years out of date. Maybe I'll ask that the manuscript be included in my grave goods.