Irrationally high levels of crankitude

At some point during my commute home last night I seem to have driven through a thick bank of bad attitude. You know, the really insidious stuff that finds its way through your car’s ventilation system to be inhaled and become part of your existence for the next 24 to 48 hours. Yeah, that stuff. We all hate it.

Really, there can be no other logical reason for how I’ve been feeling since about that time yesterday. Work is busy but going well enough considering. I’m eating alright, going to the gym. Sleeping decently. Can’t blame hormones.

So what exactly is my damage? Why was I a virtually useless conversationalist when I was called last night? Why do I have to keep fighting off the urge to snap at my colleagues? Why does all of my music just piss me off? Heck, I was even grumpy at my oatmeal this morning. Oatmeal. It’s a cereal and doesn’t care about my opinion of it. The concept of “care” doesn’t even apply to it. Yet I felt the need to scowl in its general direction.

It’s obvious that I ought to spend my day ensconced in my office and avoid congress with the rest of humanity. For their own good, of course. However should any members of said humanity think they have some great mood- and heart-melting cure for my malady I’ll gladly entertain them.