Running in Place.

I don’t know if it’s just that I’m crazy or a byproduct of having lived with recurring depression for fourteen of my twenty-three years, but I can’t write when I’m happy. I’m boring when I’m happy.

The thing is, I’m not even that happy. I’m sick and tired of my job and the way that they treat me like a temp — even though I am a temp. You’d think that being there five days a week for four months should mean something to them. Apparently not. My finances are out of control and I’m coming to accept the fact that I have no other choice but to spend a third year in this tiny cramped hell-hole of an apartment. I’ve grown apart from all of my closest local friends and the ones I have left really don’t know or understand me at all. I’m dating a lot, but I’m lonely as a result of it. Every relationship I have is either good or sustainable, but never both. I want both. Why can’t I have both?

The ‘m’ key on my keyboard doesn’t work. I have to copy and paste it in every tie I use it. Every time I use it.

I’ve been drinking too much. A couple of glasses of wine every night. Always red, usually cabernet. A couple glasses is a lot for me. I like the fuzzy feeling. When I’m fuzzy, I don’t think. I’m tired of thinking. It’s hazardous to my health.

But still. I’m happy. Right? I’m supposed to be happy.

I want out of here.