My vacation malaise has metastasized into what I would call melancholy, except less hopeful. I don't want to do anything, really. I don't want to watch TV or see a movie or read any of the fabulous books I got for Christmas. I don't want to talk about my miserable life or bitch about traffic or balance my checkbook. I don't even want to blog. But I'm doing it anyway. Like I'm paying my bills, and going to work in the morning, and putting one foot in front of the other. I can't say why, I just am.
I was hoping the new year would make me more hopeful, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. I don't know what I'm doing anymore, or why I'm doing it. Even the blog, my faithful companion, seems to have lost its charm. Perhaps it's a crisis of faith. Or maybe it's just the rain. When all else fails, blame the weather. I'd also like to take this opportunity to blame the New Year holiday. Let's face it: It's the worst, most suckiest, utterly ridiculous half-second holiday we have. What the hell are we celebrating? Yay, our clocks work and managed once again to mark midnight? I mean, what the fuck? As far as trumped-up holidays go, it's worse than Arbor Day. And to top it off, it's managed to ruin my whole week. And potentially, my whole year. Fuck it, the decade's tainted now.
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