All I Want is a Burrito

All I wanted to do was mow the fucking yard.  Was that really too much to ask?  Two of the three local gas stations had signs up stating they carried ethanol-free premium.  Apparently not any longer.  Fine, I'll fill the gas can with ethanol-tainted premium and get some of the good stuff from Plains when I get bait for the wasp traps.  Then the fucking gas pump has an issue with my credit card.  That's all I needed.  I've been dealing with enough depression as it was, that one roadblock sent me spiraling down into alt.depressed.as.fuck territory.  I couldn't deal with trying another pump, or driving a hundred feet to the other gas station.  I drove home and spent the rest of the day watching Farscape.

I feel worse today.

I fed the cats.  Maybe I'll eat something.  It's a good thing I did a little more retail therapy a few weeks back so I have plenty of DVDs.  And lots of atlases and other reference books to browse.

A cross-quarter day is approaching.  Unless something miraculously cheers me up today or tomorrow, I'm looking at a minimum of six more weeks of severe depression.  Perfect timing, as it's worse during daylight hours.  I should just give up on the delusion that I'll start exercising, or even do yoga again and sleep as long as possible in the morning so I can be awake as long as I can at night.  If I can not beat myself up on yet another failure I can have more time each day when I'm somewhat less depressed.

I'm tired of all the pills. I'm tired of the permanent gluten-free, corn-free, legume-free, alcohol-free Lent.  Right now I'm even tired of the isolation.  I want a Mission burrito, I want some beer, I want to do something fun, I want my life to have meaning again, and I want someone to share it with.

The way things are now, I feel guilty about subjecting the cats to my misery.