stuck in the lift

It’s all I can do to stop myself from topping someone.
I mean it – I’ve had enough. Depression’s an horrible thing. At least it is when it’s you that’s fucking well suffering from it. Maybe I’m not though, suffering from it I mean, maybe it’s all in my head, maybe it’s me just diagnosing myself. It’s easy done I suppose, especially when you’re feeling as low as I do.
Marshal reckons I’m depressed though. He’s always telling me to snap out of it. It’s easy for him to say. He’d be fucking depressed if he had my life. The things that happen to me do not happen to him. Don’t happen to anyone else as far as I can see. It makes me wonder sometimes, the amount of bad luck I’ve had to deal with in my life, makes me think about fate and karma and what-have-you, past lives and that.
Last night for example I got stuck in the lift again. That’s the fourth time this year I’ve been stuck in the lift. It’s one of them ugly metal efforts, horrible smelly place, piss fumes assaulting your nostrils, stinging your brain, It’s just fucking pig horrible in there. A horrible rancid piss stinking metal box. Pure hell. A little window the size of a book to look out of, not that there’s anything to see when you’re stuck between floors. The alarm was still out so I was banging and punching the door for ages but nobody came. Nobody cares do they really. Probably is what hell’s like actually – Stuck in a godforsaken claustrophic place for eternity, nothing for company but the sound of your own breathing, the stench of piss, fag buts and stale farts. shouting for help but nobody hearing. Nobody caring if they did hear.
Not the place to be when you’re feeling down. Space to think and that. I wonder about things see, worry and that, that’s what Marshal says, reckons I worry to much. Says I need to lighten up. Like I said … it’s easy for the likes of him.
sometimes i just get these barmy thoughts in my head, they just come out of nowhere, could be anything that starts me off, a tiny little innocent thought and then, I’m off, spinning webs, thinking up all sorts of potty fucking pantomimes up there. Like whilst I was in the lift I started to think about how come you never see white dog shit anymore. you never see any about. when i was a kid it was all over the estate. You couldn’t move for white dog-shit. now … nothing. Not a whisper. i thought about it for ages. I mean I was actually intrigued, really wanting to know why you don’t see it about these days.
It’s mental!
And I can’t help it though that’s the thing. And if i don’t follow these thoughts through, if I try not to think about them, I get bad anxiety. I mean we’re talking the fucking horrors here.
eventually they got me out. Out of the lift I mean. the care-taker, pissed as a fart he was, obviously just out the pub, he let me out. He was standing there, trying to be nice to me, so’s I didn’t grass him up for being on the sauce when he was obviously meant to be working.
maybe i will grass him up. It’d serve the fat bastard him right.
It’s all to much.
I went home. Watched some telly in bed. The wife was out. Don’t know where. Bingo with her mum more than likely.
I can’t sleep.
Should go to the quacks really. Get some pills.
Just can’t sleep.
Horrible dreams and that
The End.