I'm ready to pack it in and call it quits.
I have those every few months...I expect every writer does. According to the rules I set out for myself, I'm supposed to sit down and get to work on a story. But this case is worse than usual. It's beyond self pity (although I suppose that's impossible) and into numb.
I'm going to have a birthday in a few weeks and the goals I set for myself a few years ago? Not even close to met. That's the trouble with goal-setting. You get yourself into trouble and end up standing in front of the boss's desk. She looks at you with grave disappointment and taps on the lists you made. She shakes her head sadly and talks about how you never lived up to your potential. The numbers aren't there for us.
I think I'll take the dog for a walk and consider what ought to come next. Maybe I'll eat chocolate pudding and watch old Dr. Who episodes.