8:39 a.m. - Thursday, Feb. 05, 2004
So here I am in the midst of an attack of depression, saying to myself over and over: “It’s only depression. It’s not reality. Sooner or later, it will go away.” Telling myself that I should be glad, in this economy, to have a cushy job that pays fairly well, even if it bores me out of my friggin’ mind. That I should be GLAD that I have access to the Internet, instead of calling it a barren wasteland.
The air is heavy. I can hardly breathe.
It’s February. I TOLD you I hate February.
My vacation starts the week of Feb. 15. Then I will be able to SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP.
And there’s this fucking Carly Simon song from the 70s playing over and over in my head. In my opinion, all surviving singer/songwriters from the 70s should be stood up against a wall and shot. Think of all the human suffering they have caused, and all just to make a buck for themselves!
Which, I suppose, implies that if they had caused human suffering for some nobler reason, their guilt would be lesser. Is that possible?
Nothing is possible when you’re depressed.
I certainly hope I will be able to write something more intelligent later.