This is the kind of tired I've been looking for for a while. I only feel this bushed after putting in lots of writing time, which I have done today. No other endeavor can give me this kind of exhausted high. Except maybe climbing up a seventeen story flaming building using only a series of shoelaces that I tied together to save a helpless child. Maybe that would be as satisfying. But probably not.
It's the kind of knackered where you physically couldn't type one more letter (which is technically not where I'm at, since I'm typing this blog post, but I'm danged close). The kind where you'll allow yourself to watch Access Hollywood because you've used up so many brain cells writing that to watch something more edifying will make your head explode. The kind where you couldn't be bothered to pick your dirty clothes up off the floor because whatever, you've just moved a mountain. Does anyone make the Hulk launder his purple pants? No.
It's days like today that I remember how lucky I am to be a writer. Not that I make a living with my fiction (yet), but on days like today, I feel boundlessly optimistic that I will someday soon. This is how my ancestors must've felt after culling their wheat for 15 hours a day every day for a month straight. Their German shanks literally falling off from shear, unadulterated exhaustion.
Oh my God. Flipping Out is on! I gotta go.