Nap Thyme.
I am tired. Like, too tired to wash my face, make my bed or pick up the newspaper that’s been sitting at my door tired. My hair has been in a ponytail for so many days that it actually hurt to put it down. Yeah, I made a huge deadline (an extension to another huge deadline— which I obviously missed) and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and sat on by the girl who weighed 703 pounds and wrote a memoir about it. Sending in part of a book (mine, not hers) should be cathartic, and in many ways it is, but it’s extremely depleting too. I’m not complaining (except that I totalllly am)…this is my dream come true, becoming a published author. But I can see why not everybody does it. If I were the woman I wish I were, tonight I’d celebrate with a steak and dirty martini, or hours of dim sum somewhere dark and exotic, or a few fish tacos with a few funny friends, but eh? I kind of just want ice-scream, silence and sleep, in no particular order.
What would you do if you were downright beat?
