Smells Like Anhedonia

I miss sushi. Yes, I realize, Los Angeles has sushi. But I miss *my* sushi. The spicy tuna roll made with chunks of tuna and just a little spicy mayo, not this pureed mush they sell all over the Southland. I miss the Green Turtle Roll, delicious treat topped with shrimps and a wasabi creme. (Yes, I said it: creme.) I miss sushi that was easily obtained on my way home, or with a short walk around the corner. Maybe most of all, I miss sushi restaurants that are nice and good and not ridiculously overpriced. You can get two out of three, tops, on this side of the 405, but that's it.

I miss anger. I know it's around here somewhere -- or else, why did that cat flyer bother me so much? But for the life of me, I cannot seem to get angry about things that deserve my anger. No, those things only make me very, very sad. The best I've done so far: Some irritation with people who insist on walking in the bike lane. That's not going to cut it!

I miss delight. I don't know where it went. Maybe it's hanging out with anger? But nothing seems to do it these days. The movies in theaters seem like well-marketed wallpaper. Chocolate frosting helps for about 30 seconds, and then... blech.

Yes, I can connect the dots. I've been to this neck of the woods before -- dissatisfaction with the available options, local factory belching out the oppressive smell of unhappiness? This is Depressionville, population: me. My brain chemistry is protecting me from something, some lingering realization that's slouching towards me with a wicked gleam in its yellow eyes. In the meantime, my lobes slosh around in a tepid chemical mix, devoid of highs and lows, just this exhausting constant non-anything.

And like the driver of a 1981 Dodge Horizon, puttering through Gary, Indiana at 53 mph, there's not much I can do but roll up the windows, put the A/C on recirc and study the horizon, waiting for the distant outline of my destination to slowly emerge from the haze.