Slipping dangerously...

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m wickedly depressed, and that I’m wallowing down instead of reaching up for help. I’m attempting to spur Orpheus to action, and feel as if that’s getting nowhere. My job search, though I had an excellent interview yesterday, is languishing, and it becomes clearer and clearer every day that I won’t be here much longer. Desperation isn’t romantic, nor is it productive. Desperation drives stress, drives angst, drives disunity in body and mind. I’m going mad, I’m horny all the time but am too lazy for sex more than twice a week, and I find myself increasingly not cooking! Further, I am again entering a phase where I ignore important documents coming in through the mail, or, more disturbingly, forget that they came for a time. I’ve been here before, and it is, overall, NOT GOOD.

The drinking is mostly curbed after a horrifying weekend of being sauced with the ex-f-friend on Friday night, then sauced with O.’s work friends on Sunday. Last night, I made delicious chicken stuffed with bread crumbs, crushed pistachios, minced shallots, and raclette, seasoned lightly with paprika, and the whole wrapped in bacon. It tasted marvelous, especially when served with honeyed roast mashed potatoes, but I nearly lost it when, about half-way through the process of putting the wrapped breasts together, I tried to open my knife drawer and the drawer stuck. I ended up yelling at it, and repeatedly yanking it to the stick point so hard that a couple of the lighter knives jumped out of their slots in the wooden drawer-bloc. O. came into the kitchen to stop me, I was making such a fuss. Worse, I’m snapping at him all the time, and having creepy-ass mood swings. I want security. Is that so goddamn much to ask!?!

I’m tired. Tired of working for nothing, tired of being horribly dissatisfied with life because of my job, tired of just about everything. Tired as SHIT of not being able to work up the energy to clean my goddamned bedroom. What the fuck is the point, anyway? And anti-depressants will just make me fatter. Life is fucking cruel. About the only good things I have going right now are, of course, my Orpheus, and the show he just introduced me to… ‘Pushing Daisies’ is amazing, and a small spot of brightness in the fucking car wreck that is my existence.