The relative ruse of being in a state of general discontent is re-heallllly disturbing.
This is not a pit-stop I had ever conceived being stuck on and it is no picnic being angry, morbid or generally miserable by myself, with myself and of, on and in my surroundings. A nerve-wracking combination of the perpetual flu, the drudgery of work and the niggling thought that my life - dragging my person along for the ride – is headed nowhere.
It is hard work being morose.
I do not understand how people do it.
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