well you're a real tough cookie...

So I've been in a bit of a funk lately, which I suppose is a very 1950s way of saying I think it's time to concede that I'm depressed.

Ragingly, put on a happy face and pretend I'm not, "Me? Oh, I'm good, thanks for asking," depressed.

Hooray!

Yep.

You don't know this, of course, because I don't talk about it here, and when I hint at it, as I sometimes do, it's just that. A hint. An ingredient in the mix you can't really be sure is in there, but you kind of pick up the subtle nuance of something different when it hits you right there on the back notes of the funny, and if I told you it's been hanging around for a long, long, long time, you might be surprised. Maybe not. I'm not good at guessing things. Suffice to say, this sadness and resignation and disappointment has been a shadow I can't seem to shake for more than half the life of this blog, but instead of telling you about that (out of sadness and resignation and disappointment and what's this? Oh, yes, fear), I tell you about my lust for Joe Jonas (so very solid) and taste in bad music (um, I buy Jonas Brothers cd's, friends).

And in the case of this post, I give it to you this way.

So I'm depressed. Without question. Some people try to combat depression in a variety of ways. Maybe working out. Perhaps meditating. How about writing? Me? I decide to bake! Last week, I holed up in my kitchen and was a muffin-making, cookie-baking, issues-ignoring fiend. If my doorbell had rang and I'd opened it to find Hansel and Gretel standing outside, I'd have not been the least bit surprised.

When I finished, I decided it was time to sample my work. Solely for quality control purposes. And because chocolate chip cookies are my nemesis ("You'll never defeat me, cookies!" laughed her thighs, though it was hard to tell if that sound was a laugh or a desperate cry for help because the way they rubbed together had a tendency to muffle her authority). When I lunged for the rack of still warm from the oven treats, I was stopped in my tracks at the site of this:

Do you see it? Do you? No, that's not the face of Jesus in my cookie, but rather that of a grumpy old man!

(Some of you may wonder if there's a difference between the two possibilities, and, well, I'm no Bible expert, but yeah, I think there is. Your results may vary.)

Seriously, take a closer look! Do you see it now? No? OK, let me present a more in-depth analysis put together by a crack team of investigators equipped with both time on their hands and the latest in photo editing software:

That (when you click on it to enlarge it so as to read the witty bon mots because, look at that, I adore tiny point sizes!) appears to be irrefutable evidence that my cookie, much like myself, has a bad attitude and could perhaps benefit from a prescription for an MAO inhibitor. It could also be confused with the look my mother would have given me had she been here and seen me about to gorge myself on super chunk cookies, but that's another issue I've secretly been dealing with for years, too, and I shall not burden you with it today.

I confess to hesitating a bit before eating this particular cookie, and perhaps praying to the deliciously gooey melted chocolate contained within, but then I remembered how much I love cookies and how much I needed an outlet, however temporary, to squelch my feelings, and this (and three of its nondescript counterparts)(OK, six, MOTHER!)(hush now)(it was spread out throughout the late afternoon)(if by late afternoon, you accept that it was 15 minutes)(it was more like five)(like you haven't) seemed to do the trick.

So, long story short, I'm depressed and, when it comes to these kinds of things, that's just how the cookie grumbles.