(no subject)
Our protagonist,
Who art in apartment,
Lethargy be thy name.
Had about three hours sleep this morning, but that's entirely my own fault. Heard myself on the radio this morning from when I was at CBC the other week, and am now feeling the need to shoot myself for actually getting in front of a microphone and sounding like a complete ass. Dear self: please stop doing stupid things. Acting on impulse is bad.
Nah, fuck it, I'll continue to do stupid things. It's better than not. I'll keep telling myself that anyway.
Was thinking of going out to Exploded View at Tinseltown this evening, a book launch for locally-produced graphic novels. Sounded interesting, as this would be an opportunity to meet local graphic artists and support local stuff, and apparently Toren Atkinson (front man for Cthulu/Lovecraft-inspired band The Darkest Of The Hillside Thickets) will be there. Unfortunately, that means going out on my own, which right now feels like more effort than I can summon.
This latest mood swing has lasted longer than I like. I'm experiencing the irrational feeling of being an embarassment. I sat down and tried to write, thought of engaging in a little creative therapy, but when I start to remember ... well, let's just say that it's hard to write when you're curled up in front of a computer, fighting the urge to scream and punch walls.
I've got to work through this crap, because my fuse is getting shorter, and one of these days the wrong person is going to say or do something and that will be it. Maybe this is just post-Olympic depression, having enjoyed all that positive energy that was swarming around downtown whenever I was there. I hope so, because I hate feeling like a perpetual embarassment, like people are laughing behind their hands, when the truth is they're probably not even paying attention to me at all.
Crap.