I've been feeling a little fuzzy-headed lately. I've been feeling a bit numb, a tad distant, a touch unfocused, and slightly more antisocial than usual. A little depressed. Things that were fun not so long ago now seem pointless. Work is a run in the hamster wheel. Food doesn't satisfy. When I try to write -- a difficult task even in the best of times -- I feel like a man trying to catch a great white shark with a Popeil Pocket Fisherman. The days drag, but I'm still overwhelmed by all the tasks to be completed before I crumple into bed.

It's like someone bleached all the bright colors out of the world.

[More to come tomorrow, including a likely explanation for these phenomena plus a possible solution. You won't want to miss it!]

I started writing about the things above in italics, but presently it occurred to me that the reasons I'm crashing are pretty dull and not worth prattling on and on about. I could write a big long post about it, but you'd get bored and not leave any comments and maybe even stop visiting this site. And that would be a tragedy, because I like it when you come here, especially if you leave comments. I love that shit. It gets me off better than a bootleg video of Catherine Keener having three-way sex with Patricia Clarkson and Claire Danes. I'm not one of those bloggers who says, "I just want to get words out of my head. I don't care if anyone reads what I write." I do care. I care enormously and far out of proportion to this blog's actual importance to the world in general and my life in particular. I care with the intensity of a thousand... very intense things. Picture a slightly built man with a bad haircut sitting at a computer, staring at his site statistics. Now picture that man with a red face, clenching and unclenching his fists and grinding his teeth audibly. That is Kilgore Trout you are picturing. The last time my blog hits comments dropped sharply, I stopped eating and was unable to achieve erection for three days. In case you missed the point: I use my website traffic numbers and vague praise from strangers to spackle over my insecurities and prop up my sagging confidence in my talent as a writer. What I'm trying to say is that I hope you're not disappointed because I didn't deliver on my promise to explain, in exhaustive and excruciating detail, the reasons for my current depression. It's really no big deal. I don't even know why I brought it up, except that I consider you a friend, and friends tell each other things, right? For example: in addition to being depressed, I am also constipated. You see? I don't tell these things to just anyone. I didn't tell the checker at Safeway (although she probably figured it out when I bought the fiber laxative tablets). I don't even tell these things to the people at work. If people at my job ask me how I'm doing tomorrow, I'm going to tell them I'm fine. I'm not going to say, "I'm unable to think straight and I've lost my creative edge, plus I've been holding a brick in my colon for two days. And you?" But I can confide in you, because we're good like that. You can tell me things too, if you need to. I'm always here to listen, except when I'm out somewhere, or when I'm not paying attention because I'm staring at your girlfriend's chest. So it would probably be a good idea to have some other people lined up to talk to, or at least suggest to your girlfriend that she not wear that babydoll T-shirt around me. I'm glad that we're good enough friends that I can talk openly about what a great rack your girlfriend has, because you know I would never sleep with her, not even if you left town for two weeks, like when you went home for the holidays last year, and even if there was some messing around and some minor penetration, I was thinking about you the whole time and about what a great friend you are.

+posted by Lawrence @ 10/07/2004 11:54:00 PM