Some days I wake up tired, exhausted even after a solid night of sleep. Drained despite the bowl of coffee I’ll gulp as I squint at the emails on my phone. It’s a nauseous sort of fatigue in that it makes my stomach hurt and I can’t eat. But I’ll run around delirious, laughing and yawning almost simultaneously. My mouth forever hanging open with a hysterical sort of grimace that switches to a grin and back again. Makeup is a marathon I can’t face, so I skip it and slip on a beanie instead. The people in the city will tire me, dodging them, walking around them to run errands I don’t want to run. I might go to Starbucks three times in one day for a latte and the barista will recognize me, urging me to take a loyalty card. But I never do because I have 6 at home that I always forget. By late afternoon, I will have rolled from desk chair to desk rug, where this is a pillow for Biba which becomes a pillow for my head, where I will sleep until just past sunset. And I’ll wake up, alarmed by the dark outside, alarmed that it is 10 past 6 and I have to go to the gym. And so, half asleep, I’ll heave up the hill to place myself on a treadmill. I will run, I will do sit-ups or should it be Wednesday, squats instead. I’ll watch the rich old ladies buzz around the dressing rooms as I sit next to my locker and stretch, which isn’t stretching at all but just an excuse to sit. And I’ll wonder why I feel so old sometimes, burnt out like a match in the trash. I might worry about the emails I need to write or the meeting I skipped because I said I was sick. And as this year ends, I do feel sick. Tired of being tired, feverish after too much work with an absolute physical requirement of at least of week to rest.