This is the worst thing to ever happen to me

All right you people I'm taking maybe a risk by reviewing a blog from my own home turf of Blogspot. Considering how unreasonable Google has been lately this might be a bannable offense.

I welcome the challenge.
I don't want to say this is the ultimate example of shitty blogs but it's the ultimate example of shitty blogs.
This is going to get complicated because a lot of this is unfunny webcomics knocked out in Microsoft Paint so I'm going to be linking you guys a lot of stuff and you'll have to follow as best you can.
Here's the about page:

Hi.  I'm Allie.

If I had to explain myself in six words, those words would be "heroic, caring, alert and flammable."  That's only four words.  Oh well, I guess I should have thought of that before I started writing.  Too late now. 

This is the standard we're working with.
Oh but if that wasn't giving you cancer already there's a second about page:

I decided to make a second "About" page.

I don't really know what I was thinking.

WACKY!

Power is intoxicating. Everyone loves having the ability to make their decisions into reality — to think "this should be something that happens," and then actually be able to make that thing happen. 

It is also dangerous. 

And it is especially dangerous when applied to four-year-olds. 

Four-year-olds lack the experience to wield power responsibly. They have no idea what to do with it or how to control it.

What proceeds is a 30 panel comic and a 15 paragraph saga about being 5 and dressing as a dinosaur for Halloween.
This is supposed to be funny.
This blog is so popular the twat author landed on public access radio.
Not that that's any kind of feat (I could probably do it given enough inclination) but Jesus Christ.
I tried to read the entire comic and I am literally sterile from it.
Thank you, Blogspot.
Ok let's run a little experiment because I'm now two posts into this shit and already I have a big fucking problem with this fucking blog. I'm going to link you an entry. Don't click on it yet-- I'm going to comment on it. I won't skip anything major from the entry.
The goal is to see if the images add or even enhance meaning we couldn't already get from her shit writing.

I remember being endlessly entertained by the adventures of my toys. Some days they died repeated, violent deaths, other days they traveled to space or discussed my swim lessons and how I absolutely should be allowed in the deep end of the pool, especially since I was such a talented doggy-paddler.  

WHO
CARES
This post is entitled "Depression part 2" incidentally so bang up job leading in with something RELATED TO THE FUCKING TITLE.
Let's go back to my own post, paragon of brilliant writing it is: what was my title?
THIS IS THE WORST THING TO EVER HAPPEN TO ME.
Lead in?
I'M MAKING A BIG MISTAKE ALREADY AND THIS ENTRY HASN'T EVEN STARTED.
Title, lead in, whamo.
COME THE FUCK ON.

I didn't understand why it was fun for me, it just was. 

Take a guess how many pictures divided that last vapid paragraph with this meaningless sentence.
It was only two.
But still all I can see is red right now.

But as I grew older, it became harder and harder to access that expansive imaginary space that made my toys fun. I remember looking at them and feeling sort of frustrated and confused that things weren't the same. 

Yeah welcome to growing up. It sucks.

I played out all the same story lines that had been fun before, but the meaning had disappeared. Horse's Big Space Adventure transformed into holding a plastic horse in the air, hoping it would somehow be enjoyable for me. Prehistoric Crazy-Bus Death Ride was just smashing a toy bus full of dinosaurs into the wall while feeling sort of bored and unfulfilled.  I could no longer connect to my toys in a way that allowed me to participate in the experience.

This is where we part companies because if a video game company released "Prehistoric Crazy-Bus Death Ride" I'd be at the midnight release.
Maybe you did lose your sense of childlike wonder.
Midnight release and I'd buy the collector's edition.

Depression feels almost exactly like that, except about everything.

At first, though, the invulnerability that accompanied the detachment was exhilarating. At least as exhilarating as something can be without involving real emotions. 

There you go. Depression is a lot like being a twat, apparently.
That's all I've derived from this so far.

The beginning of my depression had been nothing but feelings, so the emotional deadening that followed was a welcome relief.  I had always wanted to not give a fuck about anything. I viewed feelings as a weakness — annoying obstacles on my quest for total power over myself. And I finally didn't have to feel them anymore.

Easy there, Spock.
Emotional mastery comes from feeling the emotions when you want to. Feeling nothing is kind of against the spirit of things.

But my experiences slowly flattened and blended together until it became obvious that there's a huge difference between not giving a fuck and not being able to give a fuck. Cognitively, you might know that different things are happening to you, but they don't feel very different.

Exactly. I consider depression a good motivator. As my psychology professor once said: sometimes there's a good reason you're depressed.
No matter how shit the situation is it's important to stick it out because then at the end of it you can say "holy shit I'm never letting that happen again" and you become a better person for it.
Which is why I am at once thankful and bitterly hate Harris Teeter.

Which leads to horrible, soul-decaying boredom.

I just watch Girl's Generation (or my new favorite, 9 Muses) videos when that happens.
I don't use the term "soul-decaying" because that's pretentious twattery. The word "very" has lost all meaning so we have to invent terms for how not that bored we really are.

I tried to get out more, but most fun activities just left me existentially confused or frustrated with my inability to enjoy them.

NOTHING MATTERS HAVE FUN PLAYING POKEMON NOW.

 Months oozed by, and I gradually came to accept that maybe enjoyment was not a thing I got to feel anymore. I didn't want anyone to know, though. I was still sort of uncomfortable about how bored and detached I felt around other people, and I was still holding out hope that the whole thing would spontaneously work itself out.

Isn't that an emotion, though?
I'm catching some holes in this story.
I'm sure people would (rightly) argue "discomfort" isn't an emotion so much as a state of being but it implies a certain range of emotions--
I feel words like "discomfort" and "doubt" and words like that should have a psychological term because there isn't an emotional state of being doubtful but it requires certain emotions to hold--
I call them emotional superstates in my own mind but I'm sure there's a less cool term for it.
Also man, I do my best thinking regarding people when I'm detached and one step removed.

As long as I could manage to not alienate anyone, everything might be okay!

Huh yeah good luck with that.

However, I could no longer rely on genuine emotion to generate facial expressions, and when you have to spend every social interaction consciously manipulating your face into shapes that are only approximately the right ones, alienating people is inevitable.

One thing I quickly learned about myself is I have a relative shallow level of empathy for my fellow man. I do not feel their pain at all like I feel my own.
I've learned to fake it, though.
I usually turn out better in regards to considering others due to an elaborate code of honor I follow but that genuinely has less to do with how they might feel and more about holding myself to my own exacting standards.
So what I'm saying is either I'm also majorly depressed or there's something off about both of us or this is just kind of what being a human is like.

It's weird for people who still have feelings to be around depressed people. They try to help you have feelings again so things can go back to normal, and it's frustrating for them when that doesn't happen. From their perspective, it seems like there has got to be some untapped source of happiness within you that you've simply lost track of, and if you could just see how beautiful things are... 

Do you feel bad that when people are this depressed and "creative" they try to make great things like paintings or epics and you've made a webcomic on Blogspot?
I'll cut you some slack, though. At least this isn't fucking Homestuck.
Jesus Christ Homestuck.
Go ahead and google that shit if you haven't seen it because man.
Jesus Christ I can't continue with this entry. Here it is.
Maybe this was a bad setup for this but do you see what I mean?
Do you see how fucking long this is and how the pictures add precisely nothing to the already incredibly long winded and boring talky bits?
Have you ever read a comic and you wonder why they writer didn't just write an essay instead of jamming pictures of people in with the rambling (Ctrl, Alt, Delete)?
At least they try to frame the paragraphs in drawings. This is just brazenly setting the bad art apart from the bad words in some sort of bland pap that defies my eyes' ability to focus long enough to form meaning out of it.
Who cares about your depression, honestly?
You have to make me want to care and all you're making me want to do is watch Girl's Generation videos.

Some people have a legitimate reason to feel depressed, but not me. I just woke up one day feeling sad and helpless for absolutely no reason.

Uh oh, here we go: Youtube open.

It's disappointing to feel sad for no reason. Sadness can be almost pleasantly indulgent when you have a way to justify it - you can listen to sad music and imagine yourself as the protagonist in a dramatic movie.

I think Warhammer teaches us there's never not a good reason to be a little sad with how things turned out but mostly you should be angry.
The two prime motivators in life, really.
Already don't care--

Touchstone (a division of Simon & Schuster) will tentatively release my book in Fall 2012, which sounds like it's a long time away, but really, it's only the gestation period of two slightly premature babies. And if you're a time-traveler, then it can be as soon as you want it to be. It can be now!

It is this easy to get published.
I blame my own exacting standards for quality as the only reason I haven't been published yet. It truly is that redundant.
Man already I'm struggling with this blog. Despite all the pretense this really is a typical white wahm whining.
Like imagine if I drew pictures for this fucking thing. Would you like it if the entry just had this every other sentence? Like here's me reading this fucking thing:

The bottom of the chair strategically positioned to look like my wiener.
Note to ladies: drawn to scale.
But even that doesn't work because while my drawing was at least passingly amusing and got to the point with no words at all this blog is a thousand unfunny pictures and words on top of paragraphs in between. Like holy fuck I think I'm going crazy dissecting how much of a bad idea this is.

I've been getting lots of emails with subject lines like "R U dead???" and "POST SOMETHING MOTHERF*CKER!"  and "Wheeeerrrrrree aaaaaarrrrrrrre yyyooooooouuuuu???"

You know you can say motherfucker on the internet.
I say it regularly.
Usually it's directed at someone.
Yesterday I was playing EVE Online and someone decided to act a fucking fool.
This motherfucker said he was smarter than me.
And maybe he is. I can't say.
It was his attitude.
I'M SITTING HERE DOING DIFFERENTIAL CALCULUS WHILE TALKING TO YOU.
I'm going to give you 30 seconds to apologize or this is about to get fucking ugly.
And he didn't.
Well let's see if all those smarts can keep his cash safe.
Now I'm being confronted by a graph that doesn't seem like it can be fully represented on 3 dimensions--
Jesus Christ can you believe this blog is still going on?
I certainly fucking can't. How can you have so little to say yet stretch it out for an eternity?

Legend has it that many bloggers don't post very much during the holidays.

Oh what's up I post more during the Holidays

I am the greatest.
I injured myself yesterday.  You might be wondering if this injury occurred while I was rescuing a child from a burning building, but no. It didn't. 

I saw pictures of you. I have never seen anyone in my entire life that inspires less confidence than I currently have in you.
In case you were wondering, well--
Here it is.

Remember when I wrote that post responding to that guy named Kyle who called me ugly and unfunny and it was exactly like when Tyra Banks got called fat and then protested by coming out on stage in a bathing suit and everybody said “wow, she’s so brave!” and she was lauded as a hero by self-esteem challenged women everywhere?

That was pretty sweet.

Anyway, I made a video. It's for Kyle.

I cut the link because the link now 404s so I guess the whole thing has been deleted.
I wonder what she'd say about this entry.
This is less "you're ugly and not funny" and more a protracted study in why your blog is so shit so maybe she'd appreciate it?
I'm helping you, lady. It's a service I'm providing for nothing.
Fuck.
The only songs I know of that can cancel how shit this blog is anything by Al Green.