(no subject)

I should be writing. I should be finishing the other five projects I've started, although technically since I've finished Nanowrimo already I don't have to. I should be writing because I'll be moving next week, and therefore won't have as much time to write. Also because I've a game this evening, and again won't have as much time to write.

I'm not writing, of course. I'm not putting a single word to my novels. Why? Because I'm depressed.

Packing up my forlorn pair of leather pants that have been lurking in the bottom of my closet for half a year... no, over half a year now... depressed me. It depressed me because I can no longer squeeze my fat pasty white ass into them, because I've grown terribly out of shape. I'm about twenty pounds overweight, I'm nowhere near the shape I was in when I was dancing for an hour and a half a day and walking two miles every day (for obvious reasons). And this depresses me. And while I know exactly what I have to do to fix it... I can't see my way out of the immediate funk. I can't even see my way out of the long term funk.

See, it really was the leather pants that did it. I've felt like a lardass ever since that day, and I haven't been able to shake the feeling. And I know what to do, I know what I should be doing. But right now... I can't see my way out of this depression. And it's really bothering me.

I'll stop wanking now. If for no other reason than the dwelling on the subject is making me feel worse, not better.