Ugh. I am in the throes of what Stephen Maturin (of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin novels) would call the "blue devils". I'm melancholy. I'm irritated with the world. I'm irritated with myself. And I'm not entirely sure why. I'm partially sure why, but I'm not admitting those reasons to myself. Instead I'm eating melted Hershey's chocolate and gazing mournfully out the window at the yet-more rain.
See, I'm possibly having a piece published in a nationally-distributed magazine. But this isn't bringing me all the joy and fulfillment I thought it might. Instead of affirming my sometimes tenuous belief that I'm a better-than-passable writer, it's stomping me down into the doldrums of maybe-I-suck-dom, for various reasons I don't care to elaborate at the moment.
Also, I think PMS might have something to do with this. More chocolate, please! And if there's a Johnny Depp in sight, bring him over too.