I’m tired. I’m not, really, but it’s much more acceptable to say you’re tired than to say that you’re angry and upset and you don’t know why.
I’m tired. I’m not, not really, but it’s so much easier to say you’re tired than to say that you’re feeling prickly and sharp and you don’t know why.
I’m tired. I’m not supposed to be, because I got almost seven hours of sleep last night. But my goal is eight or nine, and the seven hours I got weren’t good. I can’t remember the last time I woke up feeling refreshed.
I’m tired. I’m not, really, but it’s much safer to say you’re tired than to say that you’re feeling jagged and raw and you don’t want to talk about it because you can’t handle hearing, “Suck it up, buttercup,” or, “Figure it out and get over it,” one more time.
I am running on empty, and I’m tired of it.
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Oh, good Lord, am I ever tired. I blame the stupid cold I’ve been fighting for a week in combination with four days of holiday merrymaking, followed by a return to work this morning (although really, work feels like a vacation compared to the thought of staying home with two energetic toddlers the way I feel right now). This unending crud has me feeling all sorts of fuzzy, impairing my ability to write but not dulling my desire.