The Blues are Illogical

I am starting to think I find myself in a depressive state.  I’m not necessarily depressed, just disposed to be so.  I’m in turns irritable and apathetic; yesterday I mumbled some form of “motherfucking idiot” at three other drivers in course of my fifteen minute drive home from work, which is excessive for me even considering the fact that I live Houston.  But then if I’m not being cranky, I just don’t really want to do anything.  Not even She & Him can cheer me up.  You know you’re depressive when Zooey Deschanel is incapable of making you smile and/or care about life.

Seriously, if she can't make you smile, there's something seriously wrong with you...I mean, me...

Seriously, if she can’t make you smile, there’s something wrong with you…I mean, me…

I’m blaming it on my PMDD, which has been acting up the last couple of cycles anyway, so it seems legit.  I’ve always been dissatisfied with the “pre” in “pre-menstrual dysphoric disorder;” it really should be “pre, during, and post”.  But I guess whoever came up with the name thought PDPMDD was too many letters—it’s also too much effort to say, now that I’ve tried.  Whatever the case, I refuse to blame the fact that I’ve been watching Daria a lot lately, because that shit is the only thing that’s funny right now.

I just hate feeling like this, because there is no substantial reason for me not to be my usual well-humored self.  I’m not saying I’m always a barrel of sunshine and roses, but I’m normally fairly happy.  And it’s not that I’m currently unhappy; I’m just hormonally disinclined to give a shit.

And nothing suffers more in states like this than my writing.  While I can kick my own butt into going to work and dance, it’s the things that I don’t really have to do, like putting away the dishes instead of just grabbing clean ones out of the dishwasher as I need them, or making food more complex than corn chips and guacamole, or writing, that go by the wayside.  I’m under no external obligation to do these things.  If my apartment is messy, no one cares but me, and right now I don’t really care anyway.  No one is requiring me to sit down and come up with blog posts.  I have no deadlines for my fiction projects, and while I’m not short on ideas, I just lack the will to work on them.  About the only writing I’ve kept up the last week or two has been my dream journal (which I’ll have to share with you at some point; instead of making any more sense, they’re just getting stranger) and the dance company newsletter.

It brings to mind a song by an art professor of one of my old roommates:  Ain’t No Logic (to the Blues) by René West.  It’s a bit country, which always seems more palatable when I’m like this.  And it expresses my problem precisely.  Aside from hormonal imbalances, there is no logical explanation.  I just have the blues.  Whether I want them or not.

I’m going to try, though, to keep myself from indulging them.  Maybe if I just push through to the point where my birth control evens out the hormones again, I can get back to my regularly odd self more quickly.  But that just sounds like so much work…Right now, I’d much rather just keep listening to obscure music and nursing my busted give-a-damn…

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