Nothing

I haven't wanted to write this week.
The stories and anecdotal bits and pieces of life I have to share require a light tone and a humorous voice, but I just don't feel funny. I feel cranky; cranky and profoundly sorry for myself, which in turn makes me even crankier because I hate it (nay, I loathe it) when I get all maudlin and "woe is me". It's such self indulgent bullshit, but I can't seem to wade out of this tar pit of self pity.

I'm not even sure how to put into words exactly what is wrong. There have been no tragedies, no major upheavals, just this pervasive fog of negativity that makes everything seem worse than it is. Every hurdle seems insurmountable, and no one could possibly understand. Oh no, who could understand money issues, hating their body, job pressure, family melodramas, or feeling lonely and disconnected? Just me, the girl in the self absorbed plastic bubble. Shit, John Travolta's got nothing on me.

This has been building for a while; like a storm in open water, gathering strength and becoming more defined as it feeds off of the warmth below. How is it that I feel restless, anxious, and worried that I won't be able to fix the things in my life that need a lot of work; and simultaneously lack the energy to even whip it up enough to care? My psyche is in paradoxic flux (okay, so that might not be a real term, or real words for that matter, but fuck it, I like it). I'm wondering if it's not time to call in the cavalry.

So I've been avoiding my blog, because I knew once I started to write all that would come would be a bitter tasting whine. Obviously I decided to write it out anyway. Sorry 'bout that, but like so many other bloggers, this space is not only a place to hone, and (hopefully) improve my writing, it's also a place to hash some shit out, to think out loud, and maybe even gain a fresh perspective. Besides, if I don't write honestly, if I edit myself because I think the real stuff is too messy or boring, or whatever, then what the hell am I doing here in the first place?