Oh, I'll get over this eventually, I guess, but for right now the punishing, crippling depression continues. I'm not sure what's going on--I'll start to feel better, then WHAM, I'm right back down. Previously, bleak moods were marked by excessive amounts of sleep; these days, I can barely sleep at all. Which, of course, means I'm tired all the time, and unusually cranky and irritable, even by my standards.
Most writers I admire were or are plagued by depression. It's an occupational hazard. For me, right now, the despair gets in the way of everything. I can't be funny or insightful or entertaining--I know, I know, why start now?--and so I feel I have nothing to say, nothing to contribute. I'm running on fumes here, and even the fumes are drying up.
Sorry. This all sounds really depressing.
I'll get back to actual writing one of these days, I swear. But for now, here's a rare thing that actually makes me laugh, even in my current mood, Chris Elliot's hilarious parody of the documentary on the recording of the cast album for Stephen Sondheim's Company. Almost funnier than Elliot's parody is the notion of parodying such a thing in the first place--what was Letterman's audience supposed to make of this?
