Do you pick fights with your roommate and find yourself having no appetite for romance or cute puppy videos, anymore? Do you not care about going out or sustaining relationships with any of your friends because it's just "too much work"? Do you hate when people are especially happy and want to curb-stomp anyone who tells you to "perk up"? Chances are, you aren't on your period for three months straight, or just having a bad couple days. Chances are, you're just f*cking miserable.
Despite what you tell your friends, coworkers, parents or your chatty neighbor, there is no way you are "doing fine" all the time. Despite what all the romantic comedies tell us about life, love and happiness, life isn't always great and sometimes you just feel like sh*t for weeks, even months.
I believe that the best way to tell what emotional state you're finding yourself in is by the morning indicator: how you feel when you have to start another day.
Obviously, I'm not talking about that initial feeling you have when your alarm goes off; you'd have to be somewhat deranged not to wish you were dead every time it wakes you from a blissful sleep. I'm talking about your mood throughout the next few hours, as you rush to get ready, shuffle to work, buy yourself a coffee and start another day.
If you find that you are spending more than half your morning plotting the receptionist's death because she said, "Happy hump day!" or if you're dreaming of the next foreign film you are going to watch when your roommate leaves, it's time to reevaluate your life and yourself and figure out if maybe, you're just a miserable person.
Here are 20 telltale signs that you're an undercover, miserable individual:
You're easily offended.
Obviously, when your roommate doesn't do the dishes, it's a personal attack on your character.
You feel like you're connecting with coworkers when they say they're "in a bad mood."
It's the only time you really understand and can tolerate being around them.
You recently followed Amy Winehouse on Twitter.
She's just so soulful.
You have your speech set for the next person who tells you to "smile."
This is America, buddy. I can frown as much as I goddamn please!
Your most meaningful conversations are with taxi drivers.
They are the only ones who really understand you, even if they can't actually understand you.
You've gotten in one too many bar fights.
Next time, bitches will think twice before they knock on your bathroom stall.
Your Netflix account only recommends Darren Aronofsky and Holocaust-themed films.
Life is cruel and mean, so why delude yourself with lies?
You value your time with food over friends.
Food brings you a surprising amount of joy and comfort. Plus, you never have to listen to its boyfriend issues.
You look for excuses to stay in on the weekends.
Obviously cleaning your refrigerator is more fun than having to talk to anyone.
You're jealous of the guy at work who's out sick with pneumonia.
I'd like to lie in bed, contemplating death all day.
Bar crawls are your personal hell.
You only like to drink to cry and listen to jazz, and you can't very well do that with all these people in Michigan gear around.
You find yourself going out with the internal monologue of Holden Caulfield.
Phonies. They're all a bunch of phonies.
You never realized how great Bob Dylan was.
Everything he makes is just so sad and beautiful.
You brag about never winning anything.
You're too busy self-loathing to care about superficial awards.
You start most of your sentences with, "I don't want to complain, but..."
You can't help that there's always something wrong.
You've become partial to whiskey… for the burn.
That's what they do in the movies, right?
You hysterically cry at "Top Chef" eliminations.
That's all they had left! It wasn't even their fault! Carlos had immunity!
You resent your roommate whenever he/she asks you to go out.
Can't you see I'm brooding tonight?
You find yourself defending Kristen Stewart.
She's just sad, guys. She's not gonna pretend to be happy just because she's rich and famous.
You hope it's raining when you check the weather.
The sun is so depressing.
You recently asked the librarian if she had any Sylvia Plath.
You find salvation in her writing.
Photo credit: 500 Days Of Summer