Ah, it’s one of those evenings. The dissatisfied, down, morose ones where sad music seems like an excellent idea and all your conversations are fatally tinged with melancholy and passive aggression, because nothing seems quite right. I#m familiar with these evenings, since they occur every fucking Sunday night. I really do suffer from a wicked dose of Sunday Blues every week, and tonight is no exception. Some Sundays I’m sad because Monday is coming or the weekend is over, others I’m irrationally angry at everything. This is one of those. There’s no particular reason for it; my job is not to remove nuclear waste or sewage by hand, or to hopelessly fight bureaucracy every grinding day, or to attempt to heal the multitudes of people who have no hope or desire to be healed. Actually, my job is relatively enjoyable in some ways: I never get bored, and watch the clock, I occasionally have days where I feel professionally satisfied, and most days I can sneak home by 4pm if I’m prepared to do work in my own time. Which is fine by me, I’m very on board with doing work in my PJs. So, why the weekly misery? Fucked if I know, yet thar she blows.