Sunday nights are traditionally a depression peak for me. Back in the 80s for a while I lived at the UCLA Co-Op, which was a decaying pile of shit full of poor students. My room mate was an Iranian communist revolutionary and a very unpleasant guy. I kept a nocturnal schedule and couldn't find a job. Most nights I would take the hour walk down to Dolores Restaurant on Santa Monica Blvd and talk to the waiter and read a mystery until dawn, then walk back. I nearly committed suicide that summer.
Ever since then the dullness, absence of media and general quiet of Sunday nights have been a depression trigger for me; I easily slip back into the summer of 1986, which believe me is not where I need to be. It's the Dark Night of the Soul, the Naked Lunch, the Dreaded Veal Cutlet. Maybe not that last one.
With no car, no money, and as the CHP says about stranded motorists "no friends no family no fun", it was pretty wretched. As bad as things can be now, it's no 1986.