Autocomplete: A(n Introduction)

Hmmmmmmmm, what’s the opposite of a combover? (Eugenio Hansen CC-SA)

I’ve always wanted to be an advice columnist. (Okay, or a real luxurious breakfast chef. Since I was like … 6. There was an omelette bar situation. They had the cool hats. I pointed at the hats. My dad was like “whoa, do you see those hats?” And I was like “yeah, man.” Later, one of the hat people asked me to choose between four types of cheese. It was, obviously, a profound connection.)

But let’s not let reality get in the way of a useful narrative. I equally love deeply personal friendships and the sound of my own voice. This has made me something of an amateur, mediocre (uninvited?) sage amongst friends and coworkers or whatever. This is what people without severe ego issues may consider “being a friend.” Also, Amateur is important to keep in mind here, because I often dole out this advice during brief intermissions between my own super suspect life choices.

You’d do well to brine yourself in salt before taking anything I have to recommend (I mean other than toum. What a condiment!) too seriously.

Anyway, this is the first little thing of a bigger little thing I’m going to call Autocomplete.

I’m going to responding to the questions people are asking of our collective unconscious (Google. maybe Bing if I want to attract the hipster crowd) most often, one letter at a time. This may sometimes take on the form of a mediocre advice column. Some weeks, I’m just going to write some other stuff. It will happen every week until it doesn’t, like the way Scott treats showing up to bar trivia. Goddammit, Scott.

Then, once I get done with every letter, (or, maybe like a Sufjan Steven’s project, once I get bored) I’ll move on to doing other stuff. Maybe some kind of podcast. Maybe cartoons. You’re not paying for this shit, so take it easy. Let me figure it out. Thanks for playing along.

Now,

The Letter A

boy, am I happy to see you’re still reading this mess.

Am I depressed?
God, I hope you’re not. Have you ever been depressed, kind person on the Internet? It is an absolute pile of dog shit. It’s an underground fire that no one else sees but might never go out.

There’s one of those still haunting the underneath bits of Centralia, Pennsylvania. Read about it.

Depression is having all your friends over for a party where they sit around with expectant smiles. They’re slowly handing you beautifully wrapped presents of all your favorite foods and sweaters and life experiences and you’re at the head of the table feeling nothing. It’s a dog you can’t pet. It’s the worst.

I think a lot of people mistake depression for sadness. And, yeah, sad is a way of approaching what’s going on there. It’s a lense. But depression is more the absence of happiness. I used to be a pretty bleak cat, guys, but turns out you can get lucky or happy or old. You just have to keep going. I have a mustache now. That’s worth fighting for. And probably overdue for shaving off. Okay it’s been 36 hours and I’m having an identity crisis. Anyway, back to the real question.

Here’s the bad news: You’re not asking an unfeeling search bar “am I depressed?” because you’re not depressed. It’s a rhetorical exercise. You are in a pretty bad spot! Don’t go to those search results! I imagine they are for a pill, a quiz sponsored by a pill, a different pill, and WebMD, which will make you take some sort of quiz that ends in “nope, no depression detected, but you probably have TONGUE CANCER.”

Here’s the good news: It is very statistically unlikely that you have tongue cancer! Here’s the hard news that might help: You are fine. You are super normal and lovely. You are maybe coming off a run of bad luck or bad decisions or both. Go and talk to a professional human being who talks about feelings. Go for a walk. Don’t eat carryout for like six weeks. Nothing sadder than a sad person eating crab rangoon alone. My friend recommends that I include “do lots of vigorous exercise” in this list. Maybe try that! Everytime I exercise vigorously, I just sweat a lot (like, a disturbing amount) and look like Pizza the Hutt. But then I feel a little better. Hey, maybe she’s on to something.

Call your friends. Call your family. You’re never going to believe this, but they miss you, too. And shave your stupid mustache! Holy crap, people can see you, Andrew.

Come on back next week for “Am I pregnant?” Or, if you actually suspect you are pregnant, totally take a pregnancy test before then! Like holy shit, don’t wait for an aimless Internet advice column! That is a big deal!