(For full effect, sing to the popular tune of that yuletide numerology hit)

Day 1: On the first day of Depression, my true love gave to me, the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 2: On the second day of Depression, my true love gave to me, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 3: On the third day of Depression, my true love gave to me, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 4: On the fourth day of Depression, my not-so-true love gave to me, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 5: On the fifth day of Depression, my she’ll-never-call-me-again gave to me, (sing slowly) five golden jerk-offs, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 6: On the sixth day of Depression, my illogically-out-of-whack-feelings-of-personal-inadequacy gave to me, six Breaking Bads-a-watching, five golden jerk-offs, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 7: On the seventh day of Depression, my inner-alcoholic gave to me, seven walks around the block, six Breaking Bads-a-watching, five golden jerk-offs, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 8: On the eighth day of Depression, my tender-but-healing-self-confidence gave to me, eight Missed Connections-a-typing, seven walks around the block, six Breaking Bads-a-watching, five golden jerk-offs, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 9: On the ninth day of Depression, my concerned family gave to me, nine books about Abe Lincoln battling melancholy, eight Missed Connections-a-typing, seven walks around the block, six Breaking Bads-a-watching, five golden jerk-offs, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 10: On the tenth day of Depression, my best friend gave to me, ten photos of his children (shit!), nine books about Abe Lincoln battling melancholy, eight Missed Connections-a-typing, seven walks around the block, six Breaking Bads-a-watching, five golden jerk-offs, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 11: On the eleventh day of Depression, my feeble-will-to-sweep-the-floor gave to me, eleven kinds of puppies from the Humane Society I want to buy, ten photos of his children (shit!), nine books about Abe Lincoln battling melancholy, eight Missed Connections-a-typing, seven walks around the block, six Breaking Bads-a-watching, five golden jerk-offs, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies, and the number to a licensed psychiatrist.

Day 12: On the twelth day of Depression, my psychiatrist gave to me, twelve trigger-handlers I can try at the office, eleven puppy purchasing ideas, ten photos of his wife and kids (shit!), nine books about Abe Lincoln battling melancholy, eight Missed Connections-a-typing, seven walks around the block, six Breaking Bads-a-watching, five golden jerk-offs, four hours napping, three Tweets about my bar life, two gas station Pepsi slushies (that spilled on my crotch), and the number to a different licensed psychiatrist.

– Dunstan McGill