Woe is me. That’s just the way it is. I am woe, hear me roar!

This sucks! I had a whole great post written and somehow I lost it. Poopy. Today is not my day, I suppose. My internet is being wonky to boot.

I’m very down today. The weather is crappy, I was waiting for a friend to call to go the mall and she never did, my mom and I are not getting along that well, and the online public doesn’t seem to be appreciating my writing (my entry at AvonFanLit). Liza likes it, but I’m suspicious that it’s just because a) she’s my best friend and b) she doesn’t read a lot of romance novels. She does, however, now have an in to the publishing industry, so maybe that’s something.

Anyway, you could say that today I’m just plain old-fashioned depressed. The reasons why don’t matter as much as the fact that I just want to curl up and cry cry cry.

I saw my therapist today and she thinks that part of the reason I’m so depressed is that my doctor is trying to wean me off Cymbalta. Ah, the joys of anti-depressant withdrawal! My doctor wants to put me on some new all natural deal that is supposed to have less side effects, like, you know, making me grossly obese. Anyway, my therapist says that while the withdrawal is not creating these feelings, it is making them more intense. No shit. I feel like ten kinds of shit.

On a tangent: What is up with people saying, “You look tired.” I mean, seriously, what the fuck? I’m trying here. I’m not tired, or ok, I am tired, but it’s because I can’t get to sleep without taking two anti-anxiety pills and a sleeping pill, but you know, I’m trying to look nice. Please don’t tell me I look tired. You just crushed my hopes that I was passing for normal.

But yeah, I was depressed BEFORE my dad died and my house got flooded and I half dropped out of college. Now? I’m lucky if I can smile at all. It takes effort, people. So please be nice to me.

I had to just get up because my dog was making these horrible crying noises and then she started barking like a crazy person. So I go over and there, in our front yard, are the Pomeranians from two houses up. And I think I saw one of them poop! Gross. Anyway, Dog totally hates the Pomeranians. She thinks they are pure evil. (My mom and I think they are cute, which they are.) She thinks that she is bigger (she’s not), better behaved (except for the whole pooping thing, totally not), and cuter (that I’ll give to her, but I’m biased). She’s part Pomeranian herself, so this hatred is rather inexplicable. In fact, I don’t know who she hates more, the Pomeranians or the Evil Neighborhood Children, which is saying something, because the ENC are her mortal enemies.

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, I was whining.

Obviously no one would even want to hang out with me. They’d have to be out of their minds. That’s probably why K hasn’t called. Not because she has to do something else or didn’t get my message or forgot she was supposed to go to the mall with me; no, because she doesn’t like me after all. (She’s a relatively new friend.)

Okay, I think I’d better wrap this whinefest up. I have several options for what I could do now. I could: crawl into bed and take a nap/cry, try to make myself feel better by getting my adrenaline pumping and doing some excercising, or playing with Dog, who is quite upset herself after the Pomeranians’ visit.

I’ll try not to take the crying option.

More anonymity?

Hmmm, maybe this isn’t anonymous enough. There are some things I don’t know if I even want Liza to know…

I feel dirty.