I have been feeling a new, more powerful kind of tired this week, only achievable after multiple weeks of sleep deprivation. When I wake up in the morning I must use my best litigation skills to convince myself that dying is not preferable to getting up. This tired makes me think crazy, destructive thoughts, always a winner. The best feature, however, is that it makes me forget to self-censor, so yesterday at the ballgame after my husband chided me for spending twenty five of our hard-earned dollars on a used highchair I stared out to space and prepared to think nasty thoughts but instead found myself saying out loud
What the fuck is wrong with you?
As I was feeling only temporary annoyance, not some WWIII H-bomb (or F-bomb) anger, this was a little inappropriate. But I was so tired, I didn't even try and backpedel, it just seemed too many words to explain.
And, since I was holding B. at the time, it was also kind of Britney-esque. In a bad, bad way. (Well, at this point, there's probably not a good way, but just to be clear).
I now have a puddle of breastmilk spilled onto my pants, overflow from the pump. I didn't even notice. Oh, tired, you do have superpowers.