I’m like the Ramones, twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go, I wanna be sedated.
It’s another case of not wanting to hope, because it’s been years of being kicked in the teeth whenever I dared to.
I can’t settle to work. I can barely eat, sleeping was difficult–I spent most of last night in a YouTube rabbit hole full of Letterkenny and Josh Johnson. (The former is because a friend absolutely and rightfully demanded I watch it, the latter was a gift of the algorithm.) I’ve got to laugh or I’ll start screaming. The tension is awful, and made worse by burnout.
I hate not working. I hate having even hope stolen from us. I hate trembling on this knife-edge.
If you’re on tenterhooks right now, you’re not alone. That’s all the comfort I can give. I’m right there with you, my friend. Holding the line and trying to breathe.
Less than, less than, less than twenty-four hours to goooooo…