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I touched on this in yesterday's post but this place still does not feel like home. Maybe it's the fact that I am mostly alone here all day long with no job and no cat and no I do not feel like leaving the apartment because that would require, I don't know, showering? Getting dressed? And I wouldn't know where to go and I am really not one who enjoys being outside because my bed is so damn comfortable there seems to be no good reason to actually get out of it.

So yes, I spend about 23 hours of the day in bed and I think I am depressed. Or something. I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen, only I don't know what that is. I thought I'd shake this feeling when I get back from Paris, but I still feel like I'm waiting for my real life to start. I'm still waiting to be happy with myself and starting to feel like that's probably never going to happen and I should just get over it.

This place just feels really empty and I know I should quit talking about my cat, because seriously how pathetic right? But every time I leave the house and come back I expect to see her run up to sniff my shoes and there's nothing. It's just quiet and empty and nothing else is alive inside except me, and only just barely.

Labels: Depression, Taz