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Sadness, like water, flows downhill. Put enough sad people together and their combined misery can quickly cascade into the black abyss. To avoid this quagmire of lamentation, it’s essential to introduce a countervailing influence as soon as possible. Survivors of school shootings and natural disasters have grief counselors for this reason; with the recent passing of Friend Anthony, my friends have me.
Thanks to my own impressive résumé of dysphoria and loss, I am keenly attuned to the downwardly kinetic potential of mourning. That, and my naturally abrasive and insensitive sense of humour, have rendered me ideally suited to wrangle masses of melancholy away from the brink of despair and on to less plaintive plains.
Sorrow and rueful reflection are obligatory aspects of the grieving process, but, left unchecked, they can carry you off a cliff. That’s when it’s time for someone to say, “Jeez, did someone die around here?!”
That’s me, the sheepdog of depression.
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