Hell, if I can suffer from post-partum depression, certainly post-travel depression is a valid diagnosis, right?
It probably does not help that my full-spectrum lightbox is nowhere to be found, or that Max kept me awake all weekend and I of course managed to come down with the bubonic plague or giardia or whatever other shit he brought home from pre-school bundled up with wet mittens, and elbow macaroni glued to construction paper.
I have sat here most of the morning, staring at a document I created with ideas for articles and appropriate places to pitch. Just staring. No writing. Unless you count sending my friend Jenni an e-mail response that consisted solely of JPEG attachments of a bong and several bottles of tequila as writing.
Really fucking useless, this depression thing. Especially when it starts to shape shift. Or when the cat throws up on the sofa next to me and grabbing a few sheets of Bounty seems a monumental task on par with securing a visa to Bhutan.
Send the sun, a goddamn dozen palm trees, a new passport and the wind at my heels.Or just come over and kick my coughing, sneezing, feverish ass. Because if you don’t, it is cat puke, laundry and utterly banal self-flagellation here in Somerville.