I hate life and am turned on by pointless suffering that is a metaphor for my own broken soul.

Or something.

Is this too dramatic?

to end all weeks. The last seven days have been difficult, deflating, dastartly, dead-endish, dogged, desperate, down, and dirty, to say the least. There has been no more difficult seven day period since I arrived in New York.

I am flat. I am flatbergasted. I am ready for a break. I am exhausted. I am running on fumes. I am fuming about the way I’ve been running. I wish I could wipe its memory from my mind.

I am going to relish spending the next week sitting at home actually working on something academic. It is going to be oh so nice to use my mind instead of my adrenaline and furrowed brow.

And tonight I am simply going to go home and vegetate.