What rowdy friends?

It's Saturday night, just about 6:30. Opened a beer. Just ordered a pizza because my stomach has begun to devour itself and there is no food in the house.

And so it goes, on another Saturday night. Sitting at home, staring at the computer screen.

I work weekends. I've worked them for last 2+ years, I think I've mentioned that.

I fucking hate it. I think I've mentioned that too.

At first, it was no big deal. Sure, yeah, I can work Saturdays and Sundays. I don't go out much, so it won't impact my social life terribly, and if that's what we need to do to get the paper out on time, well then...

Two years later, and even if I wanted to go out, I couldn't. Even if I wanted to play at having a social life, there's not time for it. So instead, I sit here, staring at the computer screen, wondering where the heck it was that I made the wrong choice. Because it must've been somewhere.

What's really eating at me right now, is that I have another choice, or maybe choices depending on how you look at it, looming on me. And I can feel the hot, diseased breath on my neck, just begging for me to make the wrong one.

But you never know what the wrong one is until it's too late. Do you?

I can't talk about these choices in any great deatil. A reminder of the joys of anonymity, I guess. All I can say is this:

Something that I've wanted for the last two years is finally at my doorstep. And now that it's here, I look at it, and I really don't give a shit if I get it or not.

Two years of patience and now -- who cares.

Makes me wonder if it's even the right decision?

It's not a bad decision, really. Even if I don't care about it, it's something that could prove beneficial down the road. The only problem I'm having is that it's impacting my ability to make another, completely unrelated decision.

And the whole stupid, sorry situation is making me sick. I've felt nautious for almost two weeks straight, and I don't expect things to get any better anytime soon.

The worst thing is that, as much as I like having this outlet, I get sick and tired of listening to myself bitch and complain. But it doesn't seem like anything else can come out of my mouth lately.

I'm not happy. I'm about as not-happy as I've been in a lot of years, and it's starting to take its toll on me. I started thinking today for the first time about therapy and councilling and trying to get some help, because some days -- like today -- I'm not completely sure that I'm capable of making it on my own.

The thing about therapy is this: It's not so much that I need someone to tell me what my problems are. I feel like I'm pretty self-aware and have a pretty good idea of what's going on up in my head. I know why I'm stressed, why I feel nautious, why I'm miserable. What I need is for someone to tell me what to do about it. And something more constructive than "Cheer up," or "It'll get better," or "Suck it down, sissy-freak." Or whatever.

Of course, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, I'd need to overcome my troubles opening up to people before a therapist can do any good. Because they're only as valuable as the information you give them. And I have a strong tendency to keep that kind of stuff right where it's at -- warm and wet, right next to my spleen.