Feeling sartre-y

I feel so not myself this week as to be afraid of writing in case what I write turns out to be disgusting to me later.

I find myself thinking insane things and finding every occupation tedious and frustrating, construing every word thrown my way as criticism, every look as one of dislike...

I count my dwindling number of friends and reflect that it's my own fault, since I've taken to caring very little about what other people want me to do and caring more about what I want to do.  As it turns out, what I want to do often doesn't align with what other people want to do, and I need the kind of friends I can drop in on occasionally or call up every few weeks for a good chat.  

And all the while I worry that my moodiness will cause me to be left entirely alone, and this worry makes me even moodier...

At least I know that next week it'll be gone.