I’d Jump Off A Bridge, But There Aren’t Any High Enough

You’d think, in how long it’s been since I’ve written something original (not just a review) I’d have plenty saved up to say.

That’s not how it works.

Writing is something of a self-propagating activity. The more I write the more I have to say. When I don’t write, I just save up all my opinions for the few occasions I have to talk to friends and then discuss the same subjects ad nauseam and then they don’t want to talk to me anymore. And who could blame them?

Frankly, there’s little more depressing than working up the energy to write up posts when I can barely maintain interest in anything in my life at the moment.

Have you ever hit a rut? When I moved back home, I didn’t expect to stay more than a year or two at most.  But here I am. Given the number of commercials lately using the idea of adult-children-at-home, I’m not the only one, but that doesn’t help my mental health.

The only psychologist I’ve ever talked to told me to get help as soon as I had a full-time job.

Needless to say, that’s a non-starter.

The once a month book discussion group I attend recently gained a new member. She said she was so glad to find it—she thought she’d moved to an ‘intellectual wasteland’. I didn’t warn her that once a month hardly counts. But maybe she’ll be fine. After all, the demographics skew much more her side than mine.

My goal is a job anywhere else in the world by the end of the year. Just know, if you mention that it’s best to find a job you’re happy in—as everyone told me when I was still going to school, people I otherwise love—

I’ll punch you in the face.

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