Motivation - now there’s a word to conjure with

Motivation - now there’s a word to conjure with

I think I have SAD. I’m just weary and I can’t put my finger upon it. I look out of my window and sunny Plymouth is officially grey. I don’t think I even have the energy to write another word, that’s how tired I am. I am so tired I don’t even think that a gram of amphetamine mainlined into my central nervous system would wake me up. I am so tired that I can’t even think about a gram of amphetamine let alone spend the energy actually trying to buy the foul stuff.

I am feeling numb from the top of my head to the aching soles of my feet. I feel so numb that if someone where to beat me around the head with a 5 kilo codfish I wouldn’t notice. I am so numb that when I'm asked why my head and clothing are encrusted with scales I would just shrug and look numbly back at them.

I am fatigued. My muscles feel like they have been overworked and underfed. My greatest wish, should I summon up the enthusiasm, would be to lie in bed somewhere being intravenously fed with vitamin enriched lucozade backed up with a glucose drip. My fatigue is so inherent that should Kyle wish to attend and perform the bed bath upon me my penis would lay there like a sleepy snake at midday, mid Sahara.

I am shattered. My energy lies in shards around me, but like an ill matched jigsaw I just don’t seem to be able to pick it up and put it together again. I am so shattered that if the building were to burn down right now, at least my room would be warm for a while and I’d be comfortable. They’d find my burned and charred husk sitting with my blackened stumps upon my desk enjoying the heat, remembering those hot summer days when we are all so full of energy.

I am drained, like a can of peas after lunch; I no longer have any juice. I can’t make my pods go pop with any vigour. I feel slightly greenish and slow and sort of mushy. My vital energy has drained right out of me just when I wasn’t looking, like a slow puncture in my tire, I have been let down. Now I am desiccated, dried and demoralised should someone stand next to me and sneeze I would explode into a thousand million molecules and float around for eternity getting up peoples noses and giving them allergies.

I’ve just had enough and am all-in. If I had the wherewithal I would vote for the one day week and the compulsory Lennonesque 6 day bed-in. I am totally bushed, and have the energy levels of an inmate at Guantanamo Bay who has just been kicked shitless by the guards but given a weekend pass. I’ll pass. Mañana will do for me I couldn’t drag myself out on the town even if I was strapped to a herd of rogue elephants being teased by white mice.

I am just dead beat, like a deadbeat after a bottle of Thunderbird. A nice soft gutter would do me right now, an eiderdown of newspapers and a mattress of cardboard sounds like bliss. Take me to oblivion on a single ticket and shackle me to the railings. I’m sleepy, no hi ho’s will keep me awake, like drowsy, I’m six dwarves short of a snooze. My lids are drooping, and I’m drooling down my shirt like a bad Pavlovian experiment. I can’t write another word; my fingers droop over the keyboard, neither can I check the thesaurus for another, yet another, synonym – I am pooped.