Could I be . . . DEPRESSED?

Nah, that's not possible. But the clinician in me argues with the denier in me. I see signs where there are none; to wit, my accidentally misspelling of "argues" above.

Just the fact that I not only let it stand but actually commented on it confirms my initial diagnosis: I am depressed. Depressed people let not-typos get by. (A not-typo is an actual grammatical or punctuational mistake, like saying thing like  "and I could tell the passenger's were all on dope." See? Apostrophes don't just hop along for the typo-ride, they appear because you deliberately typed them.)(Because you are depressed and just don't care any more.)

So (left hand fingers thrumming on desktop while right hand does all the typing) what can be done? What SHOULD be done? I'm now seriously thinking about resurrecting Bagger Bastard. To shake you clod of sheep of my flock AWAKE again.

Hell-OOOO . . . . (rapping of knuckles on forehead sound) . . . . ANYBODY HOME?

I should mind-slough my depression onto you with my meta-psychic techniques developed over YEARS and mind-parasite YOUR feelings of goodness, happiness and general self-worth. Oh wait, that's Facebook.

I hate it when I insult my intelligence. I am not depressed; I'm merely praying for an Uzbek Spring.