Just yesterday I penned some advice on how to have a breakdown; most people do it wrong, and so I’m 75% confident that it was life-changing, universe altering information for those who needed it. I know it helped me immensely.

It was the result of a personal revelation and study.  Not too long ago, I had stopped mid-gut wrenching sob, wiped away bits of Oreo crumbs and tissue dust mixing together on my chin, to ask myself, “Am I getting all I could out of my breakdowns?” I dug intensely deep into research to find answers. You’re Welcome.

Afterwards, I dusted myself off, grabbed a carrot, put on my new black shiny flip-flops, and left my perfect cottage in the woods to conquer the world. My cottage smiled her do-it-yourself, homemade smile and said, “I’ll keep the kettle ready, dear.” The trees and daisies waved, squirrels gave me the thumbs up sign, and clouds parted to reveal a happy sun. Such are the effects of anti-depressants. I hopped into my white super-charged-growling-like-a-mean-fisted-tiger sports car and drove into the wild wasted space called the Big City – where my family welcomed me with warm hugs and pasta.

A week of Italian Therapy has nearly cured me, carbs have replaced medication, and I now stand a little bit less wobbly than before.