Blech is one of those moods that descend on me from time to time. It came out of nowhere and will go back to the same place eventually, but it wreaks havoc while it hangs around. A nap didn't help. I don't feel like doing the dishes or cleaning up the pile of paper in my office. I refuse to go outside. Shut up with your pithy little platitudes about gratitude, I just want to wallow in my misery. Not a Third World problem as my friend Sharon says.
I'm listening to Last Chance for a Thousand Years by Dwight Yoakam, my classic album of despair.
Sometimes writing about it reveals it for the big bag of stupid that it is. Not today. I'm reading this and thinking, boy do I have some shit to complain about. It makes me laugh for a minute, then I go right back to my hangdog look.
Don't call 911 to tell them your friend is an emotional train wreck. By the time they got here, I would probably have on my coin skirt and be belly dancing to Swing Bop. It can happen just that fast.