Depression, Party of One.

You know it's bad when...

The one source of joy in your life is the leftover penne vodka in the fridge. And then you lock yourself in your room and cry when the salt shaker's top falls off and all the salt falls in the bowl and it's ruined.

You don't cry at a Hallmark commercial and consider it an improvement in your mental state.

Work is a welcome distraction. WORK!! If that's not a sign of trouble, I don't know what is.

Brenna tells you to drink a beer because you're bumming her out. And the beer helps.(Side note: See, I always drink for fun. Never to solve any problems. But now I am dangerously teetering to that side in lieu of recent life events. Dammit!)

You eat two boxes of Super Pretzel bites in two days and these deliciously salty bites are the only thing that you can eat without being reminded of someone.

You've listened to Bon Iver's song "Skinny Love" thirty times in a row. (I should have never realized it was about a break up. It has not helped.)

The Backstreet Boys music is a comfort to you because it reminds you of an earlier time, when you didn't KNOW HEARTACHE. Life was simpler then, in 7th grade. Sure, I was ugly. But I was happy.

All your resolutions to improve yourself have flown out the window. Instead, you eat a box of Junior Mints before 10 AM and fried chicken for dinner. Every night.

You feel melancholy and start singing to yourself while walking down the streets, attracting the stares of others. And no, you're not singing along to an iPod. It's just the beat in your own, pathetic head.

You accidentally eat bleach and don't worry that you might die.

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This is normal, right?