My world has come to a head.
Honestly, it feels like I'm sitting atop a volcano that's about to spew forth a molten lava of failure and fat and missed deadlines and disappointment. Swirling around my head, like the cartoon birds that happen when you've been thwanged in the head with a garbage can lid, are fairly largish cyclones of paper. Reams and reams of paper, full of ample information that tells me that the work must be done five minutes ago, but at the same time lacking the crucial pieces of intelligence that allows me to actually get the bloody stuff done.
I've never felt so stupid and so inept in my life. Dense clouds of fog have entered my brain, probably through my ears, which aren't doing what they should be doing, so they may as well serve as entranceways for think-addling pollution.
That's where I am today. Yesterday, too. Tomorrow? Probably. I'm running out of days, of time. The day seems to last forever only when I don't need it to. It's when I need a few extra hours that the calendar and the clock conspire criminally against me, stealing the space between the numbers that I so desperately need.
And now I must dash poppets. The cyclones are getting bigger, and Mount Deadline is starting to rumble again.
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