woe be gone

OK.

So 24 hours wasn't enough. It's just got worse. This overwhelming whatever-it-is – sadness, frustration? But generally unfounded blues - it only escalated yesterday.

Fair enough, I had one fuck off chaotic day that I spent beating through with a stick. But come 5:00pm, I was at that catatonic point where I just needed to sit and stare at a wall.
And cry.

It's not work that's getting me down. I have shitloads on my plate, but it's not that.

I thought sitting slumped on the couch, listening to sad music and staring at Marilyn Monroe on the wall, I'd reach an utmost cathartic low.
Reaching a catharsis always worked for emo kids.

Poets also used to think this was a good idea. As did Sylvia Plath. Who ended up jamming her head in an oven, after taking Introspective Emo Kid to the next level. I bore this in mind. I'd never want to feel that shit. Come on.

I knew either way, somehow, this morning I'd have to feel better. I do I think.

3RM had also had a shocker of a day, and so we sat listening to sad music, in silence just wallowing.

Gloria Estefan seemed appropriate if not contrived. Apt for that feeling of overwhelming frustration. I would've liked to cry, but I never really got there. Crying might've been good – but then I don't think this sadness warrants crying.

Nothing completely grief-ridden has occurred, there's not enough justification for a good howl.

Instead, I had an ouzo and orange juice.

Drastic measures.
It's all I really had in my fridge.
It was well bad.

Listened to about 5 seconds of The Stylistics, and realised that five dudes with afros dressed in armpit-length white pants with pegs clipped onto their testicles for higher melodic whining, was not going to be great cathartic material.

Copped out with The Carpenters. Just imagining Karen Carpenter singing in her parents garage in a pinafore is enough to make anyone cry.

Instead, the neighbour decided to throw on a semi-automated industrial machine in his house.
All but blaring out my chance to volute in self-pity. That Hoover made a fucking racket and messed with my melancholy vibe. Still didn't cry. Too tired.

I'm hoping by end-week, this horrible funk will have dissipated. Because nothing in life is as good or as bad as it seems. And I really prefer being a cheerful bitch.

The reasons are small, but quantitative. I'm giving up on certain areas of my life, and am going to try and ride with these decisions when I feel ready. And yes, men are incomprehensible to me at the moment. Aliens.

Also giving up smoking on Friday. I'm starting to get scared.