Unrecognizable To Myself

Wow, so I'm still in this funk. I hate this. I don't like this at all.

My boss is still on my case about stuff that I have no control over.

Boss: Have you talked to the witness?
Me: She hasn't returned my call.
Boss: Well what are you going to do about it?
Me: Uh, hunt her down, lock her in a small confined space, tie her up and force her to talk to me?

Boss: So have you formulated a plan of attack yet?
Me: I wasn't aware that you wanted me to formulate a plan of attack.
Boss: So that means no, you haven't formulated one.
Me: Uh, I guess that's precisely what it means. In so many words.

I am reaching wit's end with this particular stress patch. I know these things ebb and flow, and I need to ride this out, but the temptation to throw up my hands and announce how I am so done with this is really strong.

After work last night I decided to hit the Green Lantern, a bar behind my office. It's kind of gross (though they're apparently making efforts to put lipstick on the pig), but it's got cheap beers and it's right behind my office and it's not too terribly crowded. A downside is that it's also right next door to the gym (the one I have privileges to, in fact), so that, while sitting there drinking beer at 7:15 pm, one could conceivably make the mistake of looking out the window to see a bunch of less-beer-gutted folk sweating it out on the machines: stairmaster, elliptical, treadmill AND bike, all face out toward this bar. Thankfully, the windows to the bar aren't terribly big.

So I think we can all acknowledge that there's a difference between needing a drink after work and needing a drink after work. The former is all right, the latter can be a problem. Last night, I needed a drink after work.

I recognized the bartender (sort of -- he'd been out sick for an extended period and appears to have lost a lot of weight, though he still looks good) (actually, it reminded me of this conversation I overheard), so I talked with him just a little. Nice guy, though. Unfortunately my bad mood spilled over to him as well, as this conversation ensued:

Bartender: So why are you just sitting there alone? You should talk to these guys [gestures over to a couple of guys talking and laughing] -- they're pretty friendly.
Me: Nah, I'm antisocial.
Bartender: No, you're not.
Me: No, really, I am. Terribly antisocial.
Bartender: You're talking to me.
Me: Yeah, well, that's your fault, not mine.

I laughed at the end of this -- the real-life equivalent of a "LOL" or a smiley-face, to make sure that he knew I wasn't trying to be an asshole. I hope he bought it. Eventually I finished my second beer while he was talking to some other patrons so I slipped out. I would have shot him a goodbye wave, but he never looked my way. (Then again, not many men do.)

I went home and was tempted to sleep. Instead I got sucked into a Dark Angel marathon on SciFi and came to the conclusion that Jessica Alba has a great body but her face isn't consistently hot. (It really does depend on the angle and the lighting.) Michael Weatherly, on the other hand, is indeed, smokin' hot, and I would love to do obscene things to his naked body. (Thank goodness for Navy NCIS, or else I'd never see him.)*

Okay, perhaps the fact that I can still talk about my desire to do unspeakable acts upon hot actors means I'm not necessarily as depressed as I think I am.

* I wanted to come up with some deep, spiritual analogy about why my life is parallel to some character's on the show, but this is all I came up with. Now I disappoint myself too.