Every day can't be the best day

Almost a solid month has passed since I got back from KY. I've spent it mostly by going on crazy destashing sprees of purging anything that isn't bolted down from my room and closet. I feel like Motley Crue in a hotel room circa 1982. Despite my concern over this manic state, I did accomplish two important goals: there's an actual hamper in the closet and an empty suitcase available, in case I ever need to go somewhere. Moral of the story, dream big, people.

The rest of the time has been spent reading and cultivating a refined sense of ennui. Normally I'm fairly resilient, but this summer has floored me psychologically. Sometimes I try to wriggle free, but like a straitjacket or the Snuggie from hell, my depression envelops me and and struggle is useless. Better just sit here and take it. Currently self-medicating with cookies and Sylvia Plath -- surely this will end well.

I try to leave the house as often as possible to stave off the impending Mrs. Rochester-style decline that will be my undoing. But getting out of my house is no easy task. My parents are extremely paranoid, and are convinced that every outing spells doom, even for themselves. I went to the mall today after sitting through a ten minute lecture on being careful and aware because someone had once been robbed in the parking lot. I dealt with this warning by parking in the Bass Pro lot. What fool would mug someone in the vicinity of at least fifty men with knives and/or guns? Also, it was broad daylight on a Thursday morning. What can I say -- fearless.

Oh, well. Every day can't be the best day. Maybe one of them will be, though.