I don't know what to say. Is it the weather? Am I simply having a premature episode of seasonal affective disorder?

I remember last year when I was on vacation, I was kind of dreading having to go back to work. Now granted, this was probably because I was new to everything, and didn't know half of what I was doing, but, really, it's not like I'm so much smarter now. I think that one of the maladaptive rationalizations I've learned is that confidence isn't so much a matter of being able to do things right, but more of a matter of not giving a shit. It isn't so much that you get better at things—it's simply because you care less.

But, yeah, another pathological aspect of my psyche today is that I almost can't wait to get back to work. What kind of sick fuck would rather be at work than on vacation?

The main problem is that I certainly have way too much time to think, and all the paths I know always seem to lead me to deep, dark places full of despair, with no apparent way out. I think I succeeded in the strategy of not-thinking for the past few months, what with family crises and being busy with work, but this break has got me thinking that maybe this isn't such a great strategy, since everything I hadn't been thinking about has suddenly reared its ugly head in my face with at least twice as much soul-sucking strength.

I'd like to say that I'm OK, that, sure, there are lots of things I want from the world right now, but I just have to be patient and tend my garden, and as time marches on, I'll discover the difference between what is important and what is not. But on deeper inspection, it becomes clear that I am all sorts of fucked in the head, and the notion of becoming even remotely unfucked is somewhat laughable, and I suppose the noble thing to do is to try not to drag down too many people into my whirling vortex of decrepitude.

Right now I think it is appropriate to quote Tyler Durden: "Self-improvement is masturbation. Now, self-destruction…."