The Spirit was ambivalent...

...But the Flesh said, "Fuck you!"

I've been feeling rather tired and uninspired all day today. I pretty much phoned myself in at work, so I brought a couple of files home with me to catch up on my billing. (I'm a paralegal at a downtown law firm.) When I got home, I figured the best thing for it would be to drag my sorry ass to the gym and work it all out. I managed to get myself there, but when I started my cardio routine on the stepper, I literally couldn't force myself to keep up the pace. I only did it for seven-and-a-half minutes (out of thirty) before I finally gave up. I was so disgusted by then that I didn't even attempt any of my strength-training exercises, so I left to walk home.

My mood hasn't improved much after that. Life seems such a dreary, fucking farce. I feel as if I'm a prisoner in my own existence, a hostage to my very consciousness. I shamble through my day like a zombie, but feeling as insubstantial as a wraith. Most times it takes such a monumental effort of will just to put one foot in front of the other, to simply do what is necessary to maintain this charade, while I feel at any moment something could snap and fucking freak out. And I wonder why I even bother. I've never aimed so high as to aspire to happiness. But frankly my goal of simply not being unhappy often seems impossibly out of reach.

What I want to do now is pound down a six-pack or two and smoke my lungs out like a chimney. But the kernel of faith remaining inside of myself keeps reminding me that I gave up alcohol for Lent. And I'm not so far gone that I'm ready to go running back to pills, assuming I could even get them. So instead what I'm going to do is get high on an over-the-counter sleeping aid after making love to a box of cookies. Then, maybe after a bath, I'm going to get myself in bed and hope that tomorrow is a better day.