Exhaustion writing

There have only been 2 other nights in my life when I've wanted to go to sleep more than right now: on my 21st birthday, around 1:30am, after a cab ride from Santa Monica to Century City, with the feeling of puke jumping the queue in my esophagus; and when I was 5 years old, when my father woke me up at 3:30am so we could catch our SFO flight to Maui.

There might be a story about tonight. It might be about how being tired approximates being drunk; about the impoverished decision I made to cauterize my body unnecessarily; about how, circling aimlessly in exhaustion, my word choice tends to fall off a cliff (cauterize? really?). But even if there was a story, I don't think I could tell it. So here's an easier task for my mental state right now: let me just tell you what happened today.  

A 8:40 a.m. wake-up call by Jason; my legs were exposed in the sun. Jeans and a wrinkled v-neck with black dress shoes. Awkward. We grabbed free breakfast on the 5th floor: carrot juice, 2 Granny Smith apples, a poppy seed bagel. "We'll definitely hang out this summer." Arrived at the office late; 9:15am. That's 2 days in a row. Nikki McClure signed books, she made it out to Peter (Mary Ann, thank you). I sent the copy back home. 3 hours of meetings -- ALA, Spring '12, publicity responsibilities. A visit from the CEO. "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Let's grab lunch one of those days." I made jokes, like "Diversity of experience." Stayed 30 minutes late, worked on rejection letters, desk cleanup, time-sheets. Drinkology. At Grand Central: nervous, paralyzed, cognitive dissonance. Train was a 1.5 hour nap. The Liberty apartment: Sahara chicken wrap, guitar, and the best basketball comebacks ever. Guitar-and-gossip fest: unexpected, pleasantly amused. Awkward screw dates, misspelled texts, people to not like. Quora, Yahoo Answers, Tumblr, Youtube, Analytics. Then I passed out.