Not that I really think there's anything good about depression, but I will say that the memory of a really bad day makes you marvel all the more over the good ones.
This was a kickass weekend. I can tell because even though I washed my hair it still smells like a pack of cigarettes.
There's a guy in the library that looks like he's off the cover of a romance novel.
Now, don't misunderstand me. This isn't a oh-my-gods-lookit-the-eye-candy post like that time I sat next to a guy who looked like John Cusack on the bus. I said a romance novel. A mid-eighties romance novel of the type my old co-worker Heather referred to as "heaving bosums." He has the first couple of buttons of his shirt undone, his hair is lusher and more luxurious than mine could ever hope to be (ladies, do any of you go for guys who have better hair than you do?), kinda like Marcus Cole minus all the intangibles that make Marcus Cole so damn hot, and he's got that Fabio look on his face. You know the one, I know you've seen the I Can't Believe It's Not Butter commercials. The smug, self-satisfied look that fairly screams "I'm so hot, I'd make out with myself."
I smiled at him, and now I feel vaguely slimy.