Everything is nothing

I'm not old enough to be experiencing a mid-wife crisis. I haven't done anything to be tired of everything. I must be depressed. I had found a few things that made it easier for me to ignore reality and my failings. Then it started slowly. Things that normally kept me enthralled for hours began to make me angry, and then they didn't elicit a response at all. So now I'm left looking for something else. Not something to distract me, but someplace to belong. I can't concentrate right now. I've got one pressing matter that pounds my self esteem into dust. I might be able to move on if I had a job. I'm really bad at finding jobs. Put me in the most boring position and I won't say a word, give me all the things you hate to do and I'll do them quietly. But don't ask me to chat, don't expect me at your staff Christmas luncheon. Let me do my job and stop complaining to me about how busy you are and how irreplaceable you are.  But somehow, you get promoted for your hackneyed motivational ideas and your buddy buddy demeanor. I've written too much. You'll assume I'm some angry bumbling fool. You're probably right.