Hey, man. Let’s talk. I mean, I’ll talk, obviously, and you’ll listen. Because that’s our relationship dynamic, isn’t it? No need to go rocking the metaphorical boat. Let’s settle into our comfortable groove, tred that well-worn path, commence this post.
Indulge me, if you will, by taking yourself way back in time to Monday. Oh how we laugh at the way things were then: the fashions, the turns of phrase, the hopes and dreams… *wipes tears of mirth from eyes* Are you there? Good. On Monday, dear reader, I was full of the joys of early summer. I had succeeded in successfully shunning Monsieur Fatigue!
His wiles were not for me. No longer was I separated from the technicolour flurries of life by a gauzy film! I was both human and dancer! I cautiously tweeted my victory! I marked some coursework! Made some gluten and dairy-free brownies! Told my neighbour that I was fine now! Pontificated on which of the anti-fatigue strategems was my best piece of weaponry! A triumphant day indeed.
O hubris! The downfall of many a story-tale hero. And an equal number of over-confident MSers. Monsieur Fatigue is more artful than I’d given him credit for.
So, yeah, I’m back to feeling like gravity, in homage to Spinal Tap, has turned itself up to 11.
Good times! Now get out.