My lackadaisical efforts at dressing should have been a dead giveaway. Here I was, playing the fashion victim while grocery shopping for beer, ice cream and cookies. I didn't even care that the shirt I was wearing was stained with yesterday's flavors. I was there for caloric comfort, and not much else except a couple of movies to get me through the weekend.
The signs were there, if I'd been paying attention, but I was too busy choosing between Banana Split and Mint Chocolate Chip to notice. I walked out of the store with my purchases, cursing that it was 100 feet to my car.
It wasn't until I was beached on the couch, the Mint Chocolate Chip container settled underneath my chin, spoon in hand, that it hit me. I need to get myself some sweatpants, I thought, and it was as if a lightning bolt had hit me.
I had never owned a pair of sweatpants in my life. What was wrong with me?
I was obviously in some sort of a funk.
There might have been a man at the heart of my gloom, but he didn't really matter anymore. I had never been the sort of girl to mope about. It was time to get myself out of this rut.
I turned off the movie, left the ice cream to melt in the sink, and showered. Then I dressed in my favorite dark jeans and boots and grabbed a dark shirt that wouldn't show any blood. I pulled my dark hair into a pony tail and tucked it underneath a blonde wig, and smiled at myself in the mirror. My razor was already in my purse with the gloves, just in case I needed it. I was going hunting, and whether I found a good candidate or not, the anticipation got my blood humming.
I felt better already.
The prompt is the third definition of FUNK.