I am deeply depressed in the clinical way. Life is like being wrapped in a wet towel. I have no motivation to do things; I’m way behind at work and at home; I am not interested in food; I want only to sleep.
I think we can say that so far the new medical regimen is an unqualified failure, and this week so is everything else. No Easter service, no club show I should have gone to.
I am temporarily lifted by the company of friends even though there’s loads of bittersweet disaster there too.
It is good that I have a cat.
Everything annoys me. I realize that I have made amusing bitterness into my industry and that I need to retool. It’s the only thing that feels real, though.
The closeness I need is unavailable to me, and it’s at least partly my fault. I’m supposed to be a confident man, a bit insensitive, better-dressed, and richer. Honesty wins the consolation prize.
An eclair and two shots of Patrón Silver would be good about now, but I’ll stick to icewater and ennui.