Lying on the carpet again. This happens way too often. Lying there feeling heavy, like everything in my brain just became 10 pound stones and I am crushed under the weight of them. I am on the carpet spread eagle, not wanting to get up, lying here guilty of playing hooky once again from life, not knowing what the hell to do with the time I just stole. So I lie on the carpet, the carpet I so diligently vacuumed just an hour or so before my rich imagination could think of nothing else to do but lie on it and there it is. A cheerio. This is what I get for moving just a little, I think to myself. A little tilt of the head and there I am, staring my failure straight in the face. Damn fucking cheerio. Nothing is ever done. I will never have a spotless house, let alone clean it on the two days allotted to me. My children probably have asthma due to my complete inability to housekeep. Dinner still has to be served, children brought home from school and the bills paid.
I am still lying here. On the carpet. This old dingy carpet that we rescued from the dumpster, the one my children eat on with impunity and I walk on with my winter boots. I am lying here not wanting to get up, not wanting to face anything. Outside it is grey and the snow keeps falling like eternal dandruff and I allow myself to be sad for a minute more.
Okay. Enough of that. I am getting up now, but damned if I am gonna pick up the cheerio.
Lina Branter 
This is the best description of the “blahs” I have ever heard. The blahs are like the blues but more insidious — maybe less dramatic — but just as debilitating….
Bronwen