"Do I listen to pop music because I’m depressed, or am I depressed because I listen to pop music?"

From a Bookslut post that veers in a slightly different direction, which you are also welcome to discuss:

So who’s my one writer? Who’s the one whose books I crack open when I need to seduce some unwitting pawn in the grand game that is my life? Who do I turn to when I need to remember that love is crushing and heartbreaking and that it’s totally normal to be lying in bed wiping tears from my eyes with bunched up toilet paper because the world is just that cruel that as a writer, my budget is limited to toilet paper and not tissue, especially not aloe-laced Kleenex brand tissue. I want to lie in bed and mourn the loss of my high school boyfriend because it feels good to be 32 years old and do this, you know?

So whose books do I open to validate this behavior?

This is what poetry (for me, H.D., or maybe Neruda) is for. You?