Post-Gaga Depression Rears Its Sad, Ugly Head

PostGaga Depression (PGD), sometimes referred to as post-monster depression, is a form of clinical depression which can affect women, young girls and, less frequently, dudes who claim to be men after finally seeing Lady Gaga and getting their faces melted off.

Rocks Off has PGD real bad right now. It's inching towards a week since the Gaga shows at the Toyota Center, and he still has no cure nor is one in sight. Or he probably doesn't even want one. We re-read ours and Brittanie Shey's reviews of the show whenever we have free time. Like right now.

Since at least April we have been ensconced in Gaga: Tumblr pages, foreign Web sites, Flickr, Facebook pages for her ass, assorted fan fiction sites. We even burned a greatest hits disc of her singles to listen to in the car. It was labeled "Metallica: Kill 'Em All" so not illicit any sideways stares.

People in Montrose could hear the Gaga Train coming a mile away if they were outside a bar. If you heard "Bad Romance" or "LoveGame" blaring past The Mink or Poison Girl, it was probably us. Maybe it was the off-key caterwauling and tattooed arm that gave us away each time.

We text the girls from the Gaga fashion-tips blog every few minutes just to make sure they are OK and want to talk. One of them even changed their number. The one girl, Elizabeth, told us that she hasn't seen us this keyed up and weird since the weekend we met Iggy Pop and she threatened to leave us when we almost kissed his hand.

We keep Googling "Gaga" and "Houston" over and over again, looking for pictures of her while she was in town. We may even spend a night at the St. Regis looking for blonde hairs in the pool trap. We smoke cigarettes outside fretting over whether or not we even bought the right Gaga poster at the show and we kick ourselves for not buying ourselves a shirt.

We stare forlornly out the office window watching cars go by while we listen to special mix we made that mirrors the setlist from the Sunday show. We can't eat, and sleep comes in spurts and is interrupted by our cell phone's Gaga ringtone.

Co-workers would come by our desk to say hello and try to have conversations with us about power tools and shit, but just get mad when we would bring up the concert or tell them that we know that we are young, and we know that you may love us, but we just can't be with you like this anymore.

The other day our roommate was playing with his dog and told him to show him his teeth and we perked up a bit. But he wasn't talking about the Lady Gaga song; he really was trying to clean his teeth.

And not to be perverse, but we may now have a massive collection of pictures on our hard drive of Gaga's ass in her black unitard. Is two gigs of ass too much? Shut up! Your mom is too much.

There's always the April show coming up, but more than likely we won't be going to that one. It's Rocks Off Sr.'s turn to cover Gaga anyway. [Ed. Note: Thanks.]

That time just gives us extra incentive to save our money and sell some cherished family heirlooms to buy floor seats for the next show. Maybe even perfect our He-Gaga cabaret show we have been rehearsing in the garage.

We went to see Kesha Monday night at House of Blues, and just sat staring at Toyota Center across Caroline Street, trying to figure out at what point the Gaga show was at. Were they doing "Telephone" or "Monster," we asked out loud to no one in particular. Then someone threw a dollar at our shoes.

We're not homeless, lady, we're Gagaless. To which the police officer politely requested that we step away from the ledge.

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