I'm battling depression again.

There's nothing really wrong. These feelings will pass, I know.

Patrick's taken up golf. He's been to the driving range twice this weekend. A friend gave him a set of Wilson clubs, and I bought the matching golf bag from Walmart.com. It should arrive by next weekend.

Thursday's after-hours gathering will be at Mexi-Go. They have excellent margaritas, I am told, but since I'm going to be making some of my own for a cookout tomorrow, I don't know if I want to go.

My sales associate will be away on medical leave during the 2.5 weeks leading up to inventory. I'm starting to panic.

In other news, we didn't win the $330 million lottery jackpot this past Friday, though some lucky Houstonian did. I'm a little more addicted to my contests than usual: resentful of time spent away from the computer, anxious to check my email to see if I've won anything interesting, angry that I still haven't.

When I allow myself to wallow in my darker moods I feel it's all so pointless anyhow, that I'm a waste of time and money and potential, that no one needs me or is dependent on me, that none of it makes a difference.

Some days just feel like killing time.