I get this way, usually in the winter (October to March. I keep telling myself that I won’t GO to Hell, since I spend so much of my life there.)
I’ve spent the last two days in bed, thinking of ways to kill myself. There is just only so much I can take.
Oh, I know. It’s just my usual garden variety depression. Permanent solution to a temporary feeling but I just feel empty. Too bad there isn’t something you can take to check out for a week and wake up all perky. Well, I guess there IS, I just don’t know what it it or if I did, I wouldn’t like the way it tastes. If I was a dog, I’d put me down.
So I thought maybe I’d do the laundry today. All that sorting and folding and water and stuff is weepy work. I think the laundry room, pantry and utility room are the tidiest rooms in the house. The dogs don’t like them and everything has its own spot. Life would be so easy if that was the world worked.
I cleaned out the fridge and that made me all weepy, too. Vacuum. Make a shopping list. Go to the library. Stop by the furniture and lust after a leather loveseat. It matches the chairs in the library but the salesman won’t split the set–couch AND loveseat or nothing. So nothing is what I’m choosing right now.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll clean out my dresser. I have a ton of things that are so worn out they need to be tossed. They are too shabby to even use as rags.
Too bad that Martha Stewart and the Fly Lady doesn’t have a mental health to do list.