(no subject)

Mary reckons I've got depression. The problem is, I have no right to have depression. My life is too good. I'm fat, but that's such a bourgeois thing to care about when other people have marriages breaking down, bankruptcy, serious illness and death to deal with. What's incapacitating blubber to complain about against that?

But then the Whistle Down the Wind overture is making me cry, so maybe she's right.