As it’s getting a little late in the game to refer to my latest downward spiral into existential misery, immediately followed by mind-numbing apathy as a “quarter life crisis”, I’ve realized it is commonly referred to as “depression”. And it can continue to happen well after 25! It’s been a while since I have been capable of functioning on more than a bare bones level, which only required getting to work on time on the days my boss was there, and clandestinely trying to camouflage my wackadoo circadian rhythms. About a month ago, I pulled myself together enough to start making some changes that might help me humpty dumpty my shit back together again. One such permutation is returning to writing, which I will admit, is intimidating because I feel embarrassingly rusty and not without susceptibility to distraction. During the construction of this paragraph, I have had to restrain myself from stopping to do about half a dozen other inane things. Oh, how the muscles of self discipline atrophy, when procrastination takes up residence…
A favorite author of mine, David Rakoff, passed away at 47 last year from complications of the same cancer that we both recovered from at an early age. He once said, “Writing is like pulling teeth. From my dick.”
I guess it’s time to start yanking.