Exhaustmeister

Body: 

Notes From the Small Pond

By Parnell Thill

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Everyone’s so tired.

Age agnostic.

Everyone’s tired.

Everyone I know is too tired to not be tired enough to get through the day as the day trundles on, like one of those stress-inducing hour glasses or even a stopwatch or Fitbit counting every step and calorie, pissing you off at the end of an endless day with 677 more steps to go to Be Good and knowing not even one step is going to happen cuz the steps aren’t the Thing but the Thing About the Steps is the Thing and the zillion other things that are momentarily more pressing than your health, and your long-term morbidity include your kids and grandkids even though you see them a zillion times less than you want, you figure you might as well try and live another day, just in case, but screw the long term because, because.

There’s not much to say, unless you make it up.

“William got a scholarship.”

“Congratulations! That’s wonderful.”

“Right! I know! How about you?”

“Not so lucky, yet.”

“Where’s the Potato Salad?”

“…By the wine. Have some.”

“I’ll have both.”

And that scene is predictable. But others of it, aren’t. If you don’t have this deal, then you won’t get this deal, because you don’t have it.

But you might get the metaphor/simile:

There’s something in your life that sucks. You feel the suck-ish-ness has less to do with your suck-ish-ness than the subject-of-the-suck-ish-ness. So there you sit.

In suck-ish-ville. Purgatory.  

Everyone is tired. So much so. If I’m lying, call me. But so were the Vikings tired. And the First People before them. And those before them, if any. Any drinker of air gets/is tired. Is. Remains tired.