I can't be bothered to do anything these days. It's got to the stage where I actually have three of the five markers for clinical depression. And am I downhearted?
Take last week for instance. The LIRR cancelled all the Ronkonkoma trains and announced that passengers who wanted to go down that line should "use alternate routes". The LIRR has no alternate routes to Ronkonkoma. What this message was actually saying was "We're dropping you off at Hicksville, miles from your home, and leaving you to fend for yourselves". I rode to Babylon and got Mrs Stevie to pick me up from there and drive me the five miles or so home.
Right there was the material for a classic blog rant. Loss of service. Pretence of trying to do something for the paying customer when in actual fact doing zero (not even tipping off the taxi companies that there might be a point in getting a few more drivers on station). The LIRR was metaphorically bending over and dropping its pants to reveal a "Kick Me" tattoo on each cheek. But the next day I found out that the problem was another suicide, and I slipped into a state of mind in which there wasn't much that could be done about things and that was that. No story, not even now.
My work is ultra uninteresting at the moment and about to get galactically more so if I read the signs aright. Unlike the old days when I would just pull up stakes and go find something more interesting to do, I have responsibilities now, including the responsibility of putting a roof over a bunch of freeloaders' heads and not dropping dead ahead of schedule. This is thunderously depressing at times. I have years of skills I'm not using but could be. I have turned into the sort of person I hated twenty years ago and I hate that.
Never mind. I have to restart work on New Bog this week and doubtless that will provide some moments of pure frustration that might segue into hideous danger and liven things up a bit.