I am in a funk. There’s something I’m not getting, some vital nutrient essential to my well-being and contentedness — like calcium or one of the B vitamins — only on an emotional and mental level. I’ve fallen out of love with my routines and habits.
Earlier today I received a call from my mother who made the mistake of asking me something general about work. I unleashed an elaborate and venomous rant about just what I thought about my current job. Well, not so much the actual job per se but the climate that surrounds and envelopes it like a thick, brackish miasma that stifles the breath and irritates the throat. More on that later, perhaps.
Once I said these things, I didn’t feel any better. It wasn’t cathartic. Quite the contrary, it only made me feel worse. I’m not so sure I fully realized how unhappy I was until I said it out loud.
I’m lonesome. I’m sick of going to bars to sit around talking to folks who may or may not remember in two days or two weeks, to say nothing of the cost of doing such a thing on a regular basis. I’m just not making connections.
I miss having a pal. I’d probably miss having a lover if those sorts of things ever worked out for me in a substantial way.
Something needs to change.
