I’m down again.  Not depressed.  I just feel no inspiration, no need to do anything.  I don’t really feel like I care about anything at this moment.  I don’t want to go to work, which is normal to a point.  These are pretty heavy feelings I have about work.  I’m fighting it the best I can because, I know, if I give in, I will give up.  It’s not a big risk or anything.  I’ve been there for 7 years and we have a union.  I’d have to do something drastic to get fired on the spot.  I want to slack.  I need more sleep, less time to think. 

     I don’t want to, but I kind of do, want to write about this.  Talking about my feelings can help, but it feels redundant.  That’s why I never write in my journal next to the bed.  The whole damn book is filled with the same bs, everyday.  It’s just a book of my little tragedies.  My way of communicating the awful thoughts I have about life and myself sometimes.  I’m too ashamed to offer even a glimpse of it to anyone.  Then, I torture myself with it all day, cutting and pinching at me.  I get sick of that side of me.

I could draw this out, if I had more time before I have to go to this stupid job.