Musings and streams of consciousness over lunch
The sun continues to fuck with me. I was outside for several hours yesterday and I’m just utterly drained today as a result.
My brain feels like it’s made of congealing oatmeal, scarcely warmer than a kitchen counter. My processing abilities are fried and I find myself slinking away from conversation, lest I say something without thought. I wouldn’t be angry, I’m just pretty detached to the point that anything could flow out of my mouth. I have a distinct fear of blurting out something about confusing.
On the plus side, I’m not emotionally wasted. Had it been later in the summer, I would be destroyed right now and in need of days to recover. But, that may yet come.
It still feels like I needed about 30 more hours of sleep last night.
I walked to the condiment counter without realizing I had left my hotdog on the table. Blinking slowly, I regarded the mustard pump. I came over here for some of that… Oh right, the meat tube needs condiments. Shit, it’s over there.
I have developed an appreciation for mustard, ketchup, and Sriracha-slathered hotdogs. There is no relish – never any relish – and I am always disappointed by that. I should get used to it but for whatever reason, it doesn’t stick. I regard the open space beside the mustard pump – it’s even the right size for a relish pump – and I sigh. I could make a traffic light hotdog if there was relish.
I think such near misses are doubly noticeable when my brain is pudding. There’s something sharp about such things that prick my attention enough for me to focus.
I suddenly want to watch a slowmo video of someone bursting a balloon filled with air and custard. That seems applicable right now. It seems appropriate.
I have another two and a half hours left before I can go home and crawl into bed.
I’m not sure I can last. Sleep may ambush me before then. Or, I may yet crash out emotionally.
I hope not, in either case.
