This will be the first post I have written where I didn't have at least a vague idea of what I was going to write about before I started typing. I have a few blog subjects floating around in that abyss I call my brain, but none of them are giving me that familiar, or you may say unfamiliar given the pathetic amount of entries I have, itch.
I hate Sundays. I don't remember always feeling this way. I think it has to do with working in a cubicle since 1998, or my excessive (albeit well hidden from most people) anxiety problems, or possibly a throwback from my Catholic school days when I probably felt guilty all day after church, or maybe I'm like President Bartlett on West Wing, plagued with the constant "what's next" disease.
Whatever the cause, I do find myself afflicted with a kind of incurable dread on Sundays. Sometimes it's worse than others; for example, I didn't find myself in this crappy mood when I was on vacation and facing a week of fun instead of a week of work. Therefore, I often attribute the cause to dread for work and "real life." It's not just that though. It's almost as if Sunday is the day my mind has assigned to wander to that land which is no good for anyone: regret for the past and worry for the future. It would be almost ok if this was the only time I did this to myself, but I do it often enough during the week that I don't actually need an entire day assigned to it.
I woke up in a great place, made breakfast for dear friends, ran 4.5 miles, took a long bath and read for a while, all things I love. Yet here I am, back to the same old pointless spot, feeling like I'm stuck here, letting every little thing set me off down a road that will only dead end, thinking about things I really have no control over. Funny how I know this, yet I find myself coming back here over and over.
Bygones. I think I said something in my last post about making my next post more upbeat and funny, so I'll end with a joke:
What did the zero say to the eight?
"Nice belt."
