I am exhausted. Rugby is exhausting. Work is exhausting. Prophesizing the lives of New York’s gay community is exhausting. Being in a committed relationship is exhausting. Going out with friends is exhausting. Playing online computer games is exhausting. Watching television on dvd is exhausting. And now, my only solace sleep, too, is exhausting.
When did sleep become so exhausting? I wake up in the mornings and I feel as though I’ve been beaten with a baseball bat. I blame my lethargy on Benjamin Franklin. He who suggested the turkey as our national bird is also the culprit who suggested we drag our asses out of bed earlier to take advantage of the sun’s premature spring and summer peek-a-boo.
This is precisely why I have thick velvet curtains covering every window in my home. The sun doesn’t rise until five p.m. as far as I’m concerned Mr. Franklin! Nonetheless, the doldrums of day to day life (see above) force me to awaken with the rest of humanity, and thus I am demolished, utterly exhausted, and the culprits are both my lack of sleep and the restless sleeping accomplished, hand in hand.
I’ve been bereft of a muse this entire week. No theme, no thread, nothing with which to paint the meta-web vibrant hues for your amusement. If only there was a reality television show I could talk about, alas Top Model has transformed into such an overblown farce, I'm exhausting thinking of Tyra's ego. I need a new fix.
No... perhaps I need so commit myself to a weekend clinic. Nervous exhaustion was so chic during the era of the Hollywood starlet. Our society simply has no time for exhaustion.
The truth is this dandy needs a vacation. A vacation far, far away. A vacation with no one around (save my cuddly, see above). No noise, no cars, no crowds of commuters; everyone trying so hard not to notice one another only inches away.
I’ve lived in New York coming up on five years and for the first time, I’m experiencing choking claustrophobia on the subways. Yes, I do ride the subways. A recent financial crisis has resulted in my personal driver going the way of my personal chef, butler and masseuse: to the welfare office begging for government cheese.
So with no driver, how do I pass the time on the subway?
I find it easiest to pour myself into a book when trapped in those tin cans of death. I am not of the iPod crowd, mind you. I’m deafly afraid those little white buds will result in the loss of my delicate hearing. However, a book sufficiently passes the time amongst les misérables, and nothing raises eyebrows like a sensational title, be it “Death Cults” or “The Joys of Gay Sex”.
Even if I find both subjects utterly, utterly exhausting.