Wednesday Night, 3 January 1996

I don't know what is wrong with me—I feel so terrible. Depressed and doomed. I feel suicidal, even, but too lame and tired to really be. It's just what I imagine depression being, if one were to describe it.

Partly it's that I have a temp job tomorrow and so I know I won't be able to do anything for myself from the time I get up until six p.m. or so. But it's a job at a law firm, which are usually the best jobs I get, plus it's supposed to last through next week, so that's really helpful, job-wise. I guess I feel bad because I can't focus on anything, or get anything done—like answering mail or writing. And this job won't help—not at all. The only positive thing about it is if you're already feeling miserable, you may as well be at work.