I'm tired. That's tired in all senses of the word.
Physically, I'm drained. We've just come out of a nicely-paced pitch, but that doesn't mean the post-pitch weariness is any less. Plus, I need to be back in the office tomorrow to patch up remaining requirements before the week ends. Nyahaha, I think this is my longest week in the office ever. Whew. But it's all good. Physical exhaustion has never been an issue with me. I think I was born to work in a dysfunctional time zone.
Work-wise, certain things have been getting on my nerves, and I hate myself sometimes for letting the pettiest things get to me. Whichever way I look at it, I turn out to be the loser. Tiring myself out of frustration. That's the part I hate the most. But so far, I think I'm fine-r now. The recent turn of events since the start of the year has been good, and the appreciation and recognition (even the littlest of smiles and approving nods from my boss) is making me think maybe I could last this industry longer than my two year gameplan. So on that bit, I think I'm happy-tired. Or is it tired-happy? One or the other, whichever wins out more during the span of the work day.
Ahhh. You, of all, should know best what will come next. This. Yep, this. On this bit, I'm tired. And it's not just the past two months of trying to contain myself from the oh-so-obvious fact that I like him -- it's the entire story of my life that has been inumerable repetitions of this same thing, and all these same reasons, and at the very core, the same plain and simple truth: he's just not into me. And I keep on wondering, every morning, on the FX ride to work, why I keep second-guessing stuff which don't need to be second-guessed. Why I keep placing little messages and meanings, where there's none at all.
Maybe, at the very root of it, I don't want to tire out yet. I still want to hope. I still hope to hope. Because if I don't, then I'll have nothing else.
Nothing meaningful, at least.
