It has happened before in my life where some event has induced a precipitous descent into depression. It's happened again. One thought has implanted itself in my mind and will not vacate under any circumstances. It consumes me.
I can no longer eat. Sleep is but a battle with the bed, tossing and turning, trying to get this thought out of my head. But I can't. I must know- what happened with Tiger Woods and that accident? It's all I think about. Was he cheating on his wife with that New York party girl as the National Enquirer has suggested? Why was he leaving his driveway at 2:25 on Friday morning? Was he getting gas or a Slurpee? Those are the only reasons why I leave the house at that hour. Well, not any more. Nowadays, I'm crouched in the corner of my room naked rocking back and forth trying to sort out the missing pieces of this accident.
Maybe he was on Ambien. I heard people sometimes start sleep-driving when they take it, like the Kennedy who confuses shouting with oration. Speaking of which, I could use an Ambien. Google News doesn't update fast enough. The cable news channels aren't telling me anything new. Maybe I'll spend another 4 hours crying. Staring into a bottle of Tiger Woods flavored Gatorade for an hour and 45 minutes hasn't yielded any answers.
I haven't gone to work since the accident. I constantly urinate on myself, too down to lift myself up and drag it to the toilet. Curled up in my bed, a vision of Tiger Woods in a college hoodie with the bottom folded up to show off his tight jeans seems to fill the black of my closed eye lids every night. He slowly takes off his hoodie to reveal a pink tank top and... well... it gets really weird after that, so I'll stop.
I hope he tells us something soon or else I'll have to consider suicide for the first time since that balloon boy thing.
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