Dragoness Eclectic's Journal

It's been one of those weeks where I seriously empathize with Dead End. I've been unaccountably depressed, stressed and prone to bursting into tears over the least little thing. And had to stay home sick from work yesterday. Still don't feel so good.

It's been a stretch of those last few days where I feel that everything I do is pointless, that I'm just wasting lifespan in a life that doesn't mean much to begin with. I've been writing a lot in the last few weeks, which means I should be happy, because I love writing, but I'm in one of those moods where I feel like my writing sucks, everyone else is way better than me, and no one will like what I've written so I might as well just toss it. I've got too many responsibilities that I haven't kept up on because I've been writing and working 8 hours a day, so that gets to me, too.

Right now, I suck, my writing sucks, life sucks, and I'll die in 40 years or so if I'm lucky.

Yeah, I can get into Dead End's headspace and write him--if I can stop being depressed long enough to type. How's that for irony?