A Case of the Blahs

Woke up early this morning, felt a bit crabby - and seriously considered skipping work. Rare enough that I feel this way but somehow looking out my window at the pitch-black morning sky, I felt like curling back under the covers for another few hours at least. Of course I soldiered on, slapping myself awake with a splash of icy-cold reality disguised as water and forced myself to work.

So you can imagine how congenial I was at the water cooler today.


Bummed.
Been feeling a lil blah for the past few days. Unfortunately ( don't lynch me ladies! ) I don't even have a spotty menstrual cycle to blame. Despite popular belief, guess I can't be happy all the time - for that I'd need to be permanently on happy antidepressants - and I don't do recreational drugs. Being an analytical sort, I decided to seek out the source. Probably a complex multifactorial cause to my recent case of blahs.

Hormonal imbalance for one thing - probably brought on by premature mid-life crisis. Obviously I sublimate those ridiculous fantasies of purchasing that sporty vehicle I can't afford to attract younger prey... by sleeping on it.

Then there's my recent sexual drought. It's been months. I know religious monks up there in the hillside monasteries can last for decades without slapping sweat and skin but hell, I have baser needs. At this rate, I'm gonna be sexually assaulting the next stud I see. As unlikely as it might seem, I'm starting to wonder whether it is possibly for revirginization to occur!

And possibly the single biggest reason, my itchy feet. Seriously. All from the lack of travel and adventure ( reason enough to avoid the travel channel! ). Wanderlust has hit me hard. In the night, I've taken to covering my ears with the pillow to drown out the piteous cries of my grounded passport weeping in the shelf.

Not as easy finding the cure for the blahs. Alcoholics would of course recommend the simple cure-all of the bottle but I wouldn't want to strain my overworked liver more than it already has. :P Sweaty anonymous sex in the backrooms would help but Calvin wouldn't approve - and I'm a tad short of no-strings-attached candidates at the moment.

Maybe I should experiment with women. Recently returned to the single fold, Fab Fiona has been playfully scouting around for pity fucks. Maybe I could give it a shot. Can't be any worse than the other breeder boys out there. With my anatomy textbook in hand, I'm sure I'd be able to successfully figure out the hee hees and the hoo hoos.

Sex with a younger babe. Certainly a new vista to explore. Now that would easily satisfy all three causes. And I wouldn't even need to buy the Porsche.