It’s past my I-have-to-get-out-of-bed-or-else-my-day-will-be-ruined time, but I can’t summon the spirit. I don’t have anything in particular to dread about the day: a class or two, a nice run, eating and some reading that I, for the most part, find interesting. Still, the sum of my exertions only succeeds in rolling me from one side to the other and squeezing my pillow.

I’ll eventually roll so far to one side that I’ll fall out of bed, though, and my collision with the ground will jar my consciousness. Standing up will be a chore, but it’ll probably be worth the while, since it will jumpstart my body into the basic set of motions that I’ve programmed into it over the years.

I’d like to think that, as a mostly functioning male, my emotional states come in three flavors: hunger, fatigue and sexual frustration. About once a month, more than one of these sentiments combine for a truly wild ride. Otherwise, I just pass through time grunting approval when things go my way, and grunting disapproval when things don’t.

Yet, some days, especially when it’s rainy and yucky out, a novel set of hormones are released and I am left befuddled. How am I to deal with this lethargic languor, this sluggish stupor?

Among the immediately disregarded advice that my career counselor gave me was the gem that life, especially in professional school, is one continuous job interview. Professors are possible sources of recommendations, fellow students are future colleagues and undergraduates are potential second wives. As such, each and every day you should be wearing your game face, projecting confidence and assuring these people that, yes, they should desire you as a research assistant/co-worker/sugar daddy.

So what does that leave me to do with my nagging melancholy? All our pop culture psycho-babble offers little aid. The plethora of self-help literature only serves to deepen my sense of personal responsibility. If I want to be happy, I should just “awaken the giant within,” get some “life strategies” and/or implement “seven habits that are highly effective in making friends and influencing people.”

But Vishnu, you might say, in a good liberal society, people are accountable for their own well-being, so why don’t you stop suckling from the public teat, pull up your pants, and put on some boots with which to strap yourself to self-sufficiency?

If only it were that easy, dear reader, if only it were that easy. In my opinion, the concept of “personal responsibility” rarely does the work that we would like it to, whether in keeping the communal kitchen clean or in making life changes. Our genes and early environment determine our baseline temperament and disposition, and with age these characteristics only become more fixed. Doesn’t it seem pointless to ask Eeyore to be more like Piglet, or to ask Bashful to be Dopey?

On the plus side — if it can be called that — it is generally agreed that pessimists have a more accurate perception of reality than optimists. Thus, as sad as the thought may be, it’s not unlikely that the happy among us just don’t realize how crappy life actually is, both in general and in particular.

I’d be irresponsible if I didn’t include the following disclaimer: although it’s completely natural to feel down from time to time, at a certain point medical help may be appropriate for treating depression. People who experience the following symptoms for at least two weeks fall into this latter category: persistent depressed mood or anhedonia, accompanied by problems sleeping, a change in appetite, loss of energy, low self-esteem or difficulty concentrating.

As for my case, well, I’m happy to report that my blues have pretty much subsided. And, since I’m in a more chipper mood, I’ve decided to give everyone I come across an extra big smile and an extra tight hug. Because even though the clouds have passed and the sun’s now shining on me, you can never really tell who might be a little under the weather.