I've come to ask for your advice.

...

*noises of cups clinking, distant background voices talking*

I work a medium-pay job in an office. It’s not my own office—it’s a big one and I have one cubicle in it, among 13 others. I’ve realized only recently that I’ve become increasingly bored during work hours. I’ve been slacking off, taking breaks, lying back in my squeaky chair and staring up at the white ceiling lights. I’ve started to eat more, to fill up the time, and I’ve realized too that eating has become more and more enjoyable. I look forward to every meal more than I had three months ago, like they’re a sort of entertainment. I’d begun to smoke more—this I was aware of since the beginning. I’ve had a doubt or two about that, but I chose to smoke anyway. For some reason I felt I earned the right to smoke, and that all the boredom I had to endure throughout my day has entitled me to smoke without guilt. I would smoke mostly at night, either on the roof of my building, at the window of my apartment, or on the stone steps to my front door. I felt like an actor at times, and I felt rather foolish, too, for dramatizing my troubles. During all this time of pretentious grief, there have been only a few nights where I’d been truly distraught. But I couldn’t explain this to you. I’m not capable of putting my feelings into words, and you’d be so bored.

... 

*noises of cups clinking, distant background voices talking*