Yesterday morning I could have cried. Big fat woe-is-me tears threatened to spill their guts and turn my face into a swollen, red puffball of self-despair.
Yesterday afternoon I could have stabbed something. Anything. Anyone. With a biro or a fork or a phillips head screwdriver. Driving home from work I could have rammed the old man in front of me who insisted on driving 20 kph in a 60 zone with his foot on the brake.
Today, my apathy is astounding. My whole being is saying, 'Meh. Whatever.' The thought of having to actually get up off the lounge and do something is overwhelming. Curling into a ball under the doona with all the curtains drawn is the most appealing option of all.
Stupid hormones. Playing games with my emotions and imprisoning my brain behind foggy bars of self-deception.
Just go away so I can get back to normal.