seriously. what the hell's wrong with me?
You are exhausted.
Utterly spent, wrung-out, verging on collapse. You've been working for days, on end it seems, without sleep, without meals, coffee getting you through and caffeine pounding through your veins.
You've lost track of times, minutes, hours, days, slipping, sliding away; your flat dark when you leave in the morning and dark when you arrive at night and you don't remember the last time you opened your fridge or did laundry.
You forget about everything but work, deadlines and reports, goals and comps; you even forget about Christmas. You know it's coming, you know it's that light at the end of the tunnel, the flashing strobe that's winking and blinking and you know it's your salvation, but sometimes you think it's going to crush you flat. You know it's coming, you've got presents wrapped and prepared, sitting under a mass of twinkle lights that have only been turned on once.
But you do. You forget about it, almost.
Until one day you hear a song on the radio, something about songs in three-quarter time and it strikes you that this is it. It's Christmas Eve and this thing you've been looking forward to, planning and dreading is finally upon you. Most of it has happened in a haze of running around, up and down, back and forth and you've only got a few hours left.
And you look at your partner in all this, at the one person who's been running with you, and you know it's unwise and silly, it'll never work and haven't you tried, and please, please hurt me some more, but. But.
You look and you think.
All I want for Christmas is you.
Utterly spent, wrung-out, verging on collapse. You've been working for days, on end it seems, without sleep, without meals, coffee getting you through and caffeine pounding through your veins.
You've lost track of times, minutes, hours, days, slipping, sliding away; your flat dark when you leave in the morning and dark when you arrive at night and you don't remember the last time you opened your fridge or did laundry.
You forget about everything but work, deadlines and reports, goals and comps; you even forget about Christmas. You know it's coming, you know it's that light at the end of the tunnel, the flashing strobe that's winking and blinking and you know it's your salvation, but sometimes you think it's going to crush you flat. You know it's coming, you've got presents wrapped and prepared, sitting under a mass of twinkle lights that have only been turned on once.
But you do. You forget about it, almost.
Until one day you hear a song on the radio, something about songs in three-quarter time and it strikes you that this is it. It's Christmas Eve and this thing you've been looking forward to, planning and dreading is finally upon you. Most of it has happened in a haze of running around, up and down, back and forth and you've only got a few hours left.
And you look at your partner in all this, at the one person who's been running with you, and you know it's unwise and silly, it'll never work and haven't you tried, and please, please hurt me some more, but. But.
You look and you think.
All I want for Christmas is you.