I just went to see the movie "Julie & Julia", after which I promptly walked myself to Target and bought around 3 pounds of chocolate.

I love chocolate. I love how smooth it is, and how it melts in your mouth. It's poetry to the taste buds. It makes me feel, no matter where I am, that I'm home. It makes me feel safe and secure. And most of all, it makes me feel like a woman.

There's research that shows most women prefer chocolate to sex. Now I'll readily admit my limited experience, but let me say this: before I'm even thinking about getting married, chocolate already has a bevvy of points on its side and will be my willing companion for many years to come.

Now, about the movie:

Amy Adams was brilliant. She's one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood today, but in "Julie & Julia" she is plain, frumpy, and -- dare I say it? -- normal. She renews my faith in humanity, which was recently lost to new depths while watching "District 9". She is not perfect, she has a normal body, and she acts like a jerk sometimes. But like any human, she realizes her mistakes and does her best to atone for them.

Amy Adams, with her work in "Julie & Julia" made me happy again. I've mentioned before that I'm not particularly pretty or poetic. Amy Adams made me feel like that's okay.

But when I see the love between Eric and Julie, or between Julia and Paul, it makes me sad. Because deep in my heart, I don't believe that this kind of love really exists. I've never seen it in the real world-- I've only seen some kind of cheap knockoff. Some mix of lust and affection and commitment.

But that deep penetrating love that will ruin you forever... too bad it's not real. Because that's all I could be happy with.

What depression looks like... to me.

It starts as an edge. Just a twinge in the back of my mind. A sharpness, or a dullness. Either way, it takes the edge off of the little joys of life. At this point, I don't really notice it.

Then it graduates to being a pending doom. A feeling that something bad is going to happen. I usually interpret this as stress, and I take a Saturday to myself or something. But the dread doesn't go away. It creeps. It aches. Like an inky spot growing in my chest.

Next I start to loose self-esteem and confidence. I start talking myself down and making statements that I claim are "realistic". I sound hopeless and cynical. And I try to give everything an upbeat sound-- the edge of realism. I'm toeing the line.

One morning, I wake up and I look in the mirror. No matter what I see, I hate it. I wash my face twice as often and try to dress nicer, but regardless, I feel ugly.

All this time, the inky spot is growing, until I feel completely sullied. I feel filled with negativity. I try to brush it off, or push it back, but it builds.

And builds.

And builds.

Until one day, when I'm driving in my car, or reading before bed, or standing in the shower, it overflows. For a few minutes, the tears flow freely. I get very tired.

The sad tiredness lasts. The inky spot becomes an emptiness, again eating its way from the inside out.

And I stay empty, but pretending to be full. Sometimes it passes and I can function again.

But maybe some day I'll collapse...