My Dad is obsessed with cowboy stuff. He's been known to go garage sailing, and bring home velvet cowboy paintings, and not understand when my Mom would go all "Christmas Story" on his ass and accidentally shred them with pinking shears. Anyway, in his cowboy collection, he has a CD recording of cowboys doing spoken word- --instead of berets, they wear ten gallons, but you get the point. During highschool, my Dad and I used to love to listen to one of the cowboys rattle off this poem about how ill he was- it started off with the line "I'm bone tired, and gut sick."
That's how I feel today.
I have that kind of tired that makes existing feel difficult. My head feels like a cotton ball someone is slowly shredding apart, and my arms are as heavy as a piece of Bud's pie from the Roundtop Cafe. When Lucy took a nap, I propped Annie up on my bed and tried to read her a story or two. Faster than you could say Knuffle Bunny I fell asleep. Annie didn't do too badly. Like a bad puppy, she got into some of my art supplies and ripped a pad of paper apart. (She insisted it was snowing). I was so relieved for the respite, I let her put her mittens on.