What my depression feels like ...

I'm a beautiful, sleek driving machine, a supercar made for the road(not the racetrack). I'm exquisite. I'm a McLaren F1. I'm meant to flydown the German Autobahn (which, by the way, has speed limits and Ihave the tickets to prove it). I'm automotive perfection. I'm also out of gas. I'm slowly bumping down the shoulder, my engine in neutral, my tankempty. I'm running on fumes. Yeah sure, I'll