Petting the Black Dog

You've seen the movie. It probably had Paul Rudd and Drew Barrymore in it, or if you were really unlucky, Gerard Butler and Jennifer Aniston. You've got the two friends who are more than just friends but haven't done anything about it, then something bad happens to one of them in the third act, so the other tries to comfort them, as friends do, they get closer and BOOM! There's a kiss, the music swells, the gay best friend cheers, and the credits roll as some inspirational pop classic plays. Well, that was more or less my Tuesday in a week that was -- for lack of a better word -- nuts.

To be clear, there was no you-know-what, not even a kiss, but the unspoken was spoken, let's put it that way. It was good, it felt right, but afterwards I was mortified and felt that I'd betrayed my friend's trust. I saw that friend every day that week, and we went out again on the Thursday -- to the same place, no less -- and I have not been so confused in a long time. I feel like a teenager, and as everyone knows, teenagers are idiots.

Then on Friday I couldn't get out of bed. I know what you're thinking, you filthy deviants, but I was alone; save your high-fives. I've had cases of depression -- or what seems very much like it -- before, but I've just sort of got on with things; this time I was unable to move and made myself two hours late for work. Again, mortified. I don't think it was related to the romantic entanglements of the days before, rather it was something that had been coming for a while. It had passed by the afternoon, but the depth of the funk is still quite a shock, even in hindsight.

So that's where I am right now. I've been keeping myself busy and diving into some outstanding work, as that seems the best way to take my mind off things; having everything go a bit bonkers seems to do wonders for one's productivity.