"Two months afterwards he was reported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was urgently needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden."
- Rudyard Kipling, "The Phantom 'Rickshaw"
I am not fit for duty. Like the haunted man in Kipling's ghost story, I am hag-ridden. I will not say I prefer to die. I've felt that before and that's not where I am now (thankfully). But I am tired and increasingly angry. There's been more bruhaha here, so much drama over nothing really; and I am too tired. I feel I have so little strength left to drag myself up and about every day that I hate to waste it on nonsense and nothing. And the anger.
I don't think I have the energy to write anything worth reading (I was mentally working up a real dinger about the less than twenty-four hours between the flame weather warning and freeze weather warning). I think I need to regularly check in here, tho. I think that might be very important.
So don't be surprised to see lots of posts from me over the next week or two (hopefully not much longer), but don't expect anything much worth reading. Don't feel obligated to actually read them at all. I doubt I'll pen anything more profound than, "I'm here. I'm alive. I'm tired, but I'm alive." I'll put up the Don't Feed the Vultures sign so you know you shouldn't waste your time.
Thank you for your patience and understanding.
p.s. This is how truly exhausted I am: I don't have a postscript.
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