unimportant metaphors for empty gas tanks

silly, but true...

my gas tank says " emptyyyy"

my refrigerator says "seriously, almost emptyyyyy"

my wallet says, "don't open me. I'm empty."

and truly, I feel like I'm running on fumes. I'm so close to running on empty, myself.

I don't understand energy and inertia. It seems like energy should peter out more gradually-- with a slump toward unconsciousness that you can see coming from a mile away.

But I feel like when I get the most energy stored up, and come at anything with a fireball of energy, it just takes one little trip or false start, and suddenly every ounce of my sams club, bulk purchase of energy vanishes without a trace.

What's with that?
Do emotional banks charge unbelievable fees if you spend more than your limit in one drunken night?

I'm so past my limit.

Goals for the week:
1. not to feel like a crumpled up flower after tonight's last real group meeting at social services, despite the very odd note that the semester ended on

2. not to fold inside out from frustration after trying to schedule this project's 30 billionth shoot

3. avoid the temptation to cave into the plague until my entire soul is one big cranky germ

4. not to forget to tell my friends that I was so tired tonight... I literally jumped and yelped in surprise when changing into my pj's and seeing black and white polka-dots looking up at me. After a long, long fast, I bit the bullet yesterday and did the thing I hate most (bra shopping)-- only to startle the shiiiiite out of myself tonight, thinking that bugs were on me, or I was having vision problems, or that someone's big white-and-black spotted hands were reaching up to kill me. I'm UBER pathetic this month to begin with, but being startled silly from my own freaking bra? Are you kidding me?

Thank God my neighbors never knock on the wall to see if I'm ok. The reasons for my bachelorette-pad-yelps-of-fear get stupider every day that I'm alive.

5. Strike that. Never, ever let the scared-stupid-by-a-new-brassiere- story leave my pathetic, exhausted inner monologue.

I'm such a cheery little fruitbat.
If I wrote all these venty little bitchsnits in the morning, they'd be way cheerier. Maybe I should stop bitchsnitting at night, when I'm exhausted and have the plague.

Goal for next week:
1. Do not bitchsnit or get venty at night, and/or when suffering from exhaustion and/or the plague and/or a severe case of life turbulance.

2. also, don't forget to force Meredith to sit through Rivers & Tides: Andy Goldsworthy Working With Time. We discussed it over a lovely beet salad at Terroir, and if I forget, I'll cry and she'll miss out on the best thing that's happened to us since learning the harmony to "For the Beauty of the Earth" in high school

3. Also, read at least two more books on my goodreads.com "to-read" list in the next two weeks, because I'm entrenched in such a great pattern of amazing books right now, I think my brain is going to burst. And write reviews on the last 3 I finished because I'm too lazy to make myself do it during this incredible literary winning streak.

Ah. Much better.
That's it.