Chilly Willy

Becca came through the city over the weekend and completely ran me into the ground. We pushed through Corpse Bride in chunks—Tim Burton’s whole death-and-devotion thing playing while I got progressively more glazed. Then we made this ugly beautiful seafood situation baked with cheese and potatoes, the kind that tastes better than it looks. Shisha after that, drinks, music I’d picked specifically for the night.

This kind of exhaustion is different from the usual stuff. Not tired-from-work tired, not the dragged-down feeling of screens. It’s the specific emptiness that comes from actually being present and social and attentive for forty-eight hours straight. Your mind just stops defending itself.

I’m lying on the floor staring at the ceiling until The Simpsons comes on, and I might not have the energy to actually watch it. This is where things stand.