Empty.

After I got back from my parent’s house yesterday for Christmas, I sat down at my computer chair, wanting to write a bit and then do some artwork. I just felt dead inside, empty. Everything within seemed stuck in a sort of suspended animation, it seems. I felt uninspired and entirely disinterested in everything. I didn’t feel like writing, drawing, or reading. I couldn’t get through YouTube videos, either, and felt no urge to watch Netflix.

Was I tired? Yes. And I was a bit pissed from when I hit a wall and broke part of a gift I’d been given as I was trying to take it to my car before leaving my parents house; I kept flashing back to it, beating myself up inside and calling myself names. So maybe those factors had something to do with it, but this has happened one or two other times lately.

In response, I eventually drank and smoked some weed, which got me feeling better and writing a little — after which I descended into my intoxicated poetry and then into a vortex of porn.

This is probably not the best way to deal with this issue — which is to say the booze and porn factors.