I am feeling, today, much like Milo at the beginning of The Phantom Tollbooth:
There was once a boy named Milo who didn't know what to do with himself—not just sometimes, but always.
When he was in school he longed to be out, and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he thought about coming home, and coming home he thought about going. Wherever he was he wished he were somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why he'd bothered. Nothing really interested him—least of all the things that should have.
There's no one obvious reason for this. Just a bunch of tiny irritants, none of which are within my control.