I'm weary. Deeply. I can't imagine what it is to be drunk or doing drugs; as it is I'm staggering without standing up. Part of it is no doubt a mild depression, the sulken scurvy of the custodial worker; the other part(s) remain a perplexing murk. Trust me, it's not that I'm scouring toilets for a living, but that I'm doing so over and over and yes, over again.
Some high-falutin' CEO might stoop down from a lofty pile of money and tell me that it's my fault. I made poor choices, lived recklessly in opposition to my own internal wisdom: I've made my toilet, and now I have to bury my face in it.
Yes, yes, I know I'm going to SUU soon. Yes, I understand I'll likely have a shot at a much better job, but the plodding will go on, as it does in most jobs given the notorious label of "stable."
Ah well, here's to the liquor that is stale air.