Robin Goodfellow

Depressed Romie is a fairly archetypical creature. She cries a lot, to be sure, ocassionally rubbing her hands in dirt beforehand and/or lamenting the loss of her shadow. She whines -- charmingly and with great insight, but she whines -- perpetually. (Fortunately, this is not in the vein of "I watch my black fingernails against the darkness as I fall into the abyss" so much as "I have been cruelly betrayed by the world of dreams, and as I go so goes the cosmos." Still, it has been known to get old.) She tends to abandon or ignore any form of schoolwork in favor of bed, books, movies, and the pursuit of someone to whom she can whine further. Were she not ludicrously charismatic and so ruthlessly logical and visionary to be capable of justifying said depression to the extent that other people occasionally feel jealous, it is unlikely that anyone would put up with her for more than ten minutes, let alone months at a time. (It helps, of course, that she's private enough not to impose on anyone who doesn't offer to listen, but there remains a limit.)

Depressed Valancy is something else altogether. Depressed Valancy is intensely businesslike. Stoically, she plunges into schoolwork and cleaning sprees, biting off soldierly sentences and ignoring those around her as they interfere with duty. Tap her on the shoulder, and you may lose an arm. There are no tears; there is simply a decent into full battle mode.

Fortunately, Val is refusing to be depressed at this time, and so it only catches her in the mornings before she's really woken up. I say fortunately, because, well. . . Try for a second to imagine Depressed Valancy as the roommate of Manic Romie.

You see my point. If you don't, read this entry.

In any case, Val and I were having a conversation on this subject, which mainly consisted of me commending her for the productive nature of her depression versus the largely destructive nature of mine. "Wow!" I said, perched several feet up a door frame, "Wow! Your depression is indeed productive, in high contrast to mine Verily, 'tis a superior form of coping mechanism, revealing yet again your higher eschelon of sensibility!"

"Pish tosh," replied determined scholar Val, keying another Spanish poem into the computer. "We simply have different priorities. For example, I consider schoolwork to be a priority."

"Aha!" I exclaimed. "That explains it wonderous well."

And so it seemed to. Moments later, my neurons caught up, slamming headlong into the wall of a particle accelerator. I leapt down from my aerie, flailing wildly.

Romie: (stunned) I have priorities?
Val: Of course you do. Everyone does.
R: Right, okay, I accept that. But what the hell are they?
Val: Well, there's. . . And. . . Damn. Look, you're just kind of chaotic. Sometimes you like to write journal entries.

At this point, I began pacing the length of the apartment. Since it's a small apartment, it didn't take me long and was in some ways more akin to playing hopscotch. Before too long, I became obsessed with the pattern of wrinkles my bare feet left in the topsheet that passes for an area rug, and this occupied me for several minutes.

Romie: (master of the non-sequitor) Innocence. What's that about?
Val: Some people like that sort of thing.
Romie: No, I mean. . . Do you think I have it? I seem to, and yet I am worldly. Which is it?
Val: Mostly, you're Puckish. Any question of innocence isn't particularly relevant.

It's odd for me to realize just how chaotic I am, although much like the "hey, I'm a private person" paradigm shift it comes as no surprise to the rest of the world. I honestly didn't see it coming. Yes, I'm a Contrarian. Yes, I tend to rebel against authority of any kind. Not only do I work outside the box, but I pry at the lid to see if I can break it apart.

Still, it's kind of shocking. I mean, I like to build systems. I write constitutions for fun.

Val: Of course you do, dear. Systems engineered to guarantee your ability to move unfettered, which you use to replace any establishment you feel impedes your whimsy.

Well, there is that.