Dear Darling Ones,

I’m not doing very well. I’ve fallen into a swamp of seasonal/situational depression and I haven’t found my way out of it yet. I’m labeling it depression though that doesn’t feel right. Mostly I’m cranky all the fucking time and out of sorts. I don’t know how to get back into sorts. Nothing I try is working. Patience seems to be the only cure for what ails me and there’s nothing I hate more than being patient.

Thus far I have tried not saying anything because I have nothing nice to say; shouting my displeasure to friends and the universe; eating a lot of ice cream; tons of masturbation; French fries; healthy salads; not showering; showering; naps; throwing myself into work; ignoring work tipped over on the couch reading a mystery; cookies; and Hawaiian Punch.

Nothing works. You know how Pigpen has that cloud of dust that follows him around? That’s me, but my cloud of dust is on the inside and it’s not dust it’s rusty thumbtacks and thistles.

Some lovely things have even happened.

I got a sweet text from my niece. The “I thought of you” message is my favorite genre.

I started planning the return of the Annual Minnesota State Boys High School Hockey Tournament party with BFK. The Hockey Tournament starts next week, and some place deep inside this excites me.

Neko Case wrote about Sinead O’Connor and teased that she’ll be writing about “Emperor’s New Clothes” specifically next week.

As soon as I click publish I’m going to make cheddar, bacon, scallion waffles and eat them while watching the season premiere of my favorite TV show, Top Chef.

All this and yet, my insides are still a floating cloud of pokey things. I know this is temporary. I know it. I know it. I know it. However, that doesn’t make this kind of mood easier to bear. It’s a fucking drag and I hate it.

Impatiently yours,
Jodi