This was not a good week. My exhaustion followed me everywhere, forced me to sleep in, walked with me to work, made my eyes and limbs heavy, my brain a static-filled TV on mute. Tired physically. Tired mentally. Tired of the fake hellos and the shoulds and the shouldn’ts and the people who cannot be trusted so I don’t want to talk anymore. Tired of being imperfect. Tired of the bills. Tired of the noisy neighbors. Tired of the lines and the trudging up subway stairs with all the slow people ahead of me like we’ll never get out and will be stuck down in there forever. Tired of being poked in the head with umbrellas.

Just tired.

Guess why?

My guess is that it’s because I didn’t do much writing this week. Slept in three days and had to go straight to work instead of writing first. Slept most of the day Sunday, wasn’t feeling well. Slept, and somehow felt more tired. And in the midst of this I stopped work on my new novel. Slowly filled up with doubts like an ugly, lumpy balloon begging to be popped and no one, nothing would do it.

But the week is over.

THE WEEK IS OVER.

Trying to focus on the good: At work—finally caught up. Working on a beautiful novel that I get to return to on Monday. At home—e’s hair is at the perfect length, I love how his bangs fall into his eyes. At my writing spot—have a table in the back corner, a mocha in hand. Friends—saw one of my oldest friends this week, I love her. Writing—have a new novel if I can only find my way into it, can be a writer for two whole days so stop complaining. Reading—finished Cracked Up to Be (could not put it down, so good!), and I’m so excited for the talented writer! Random—I might bake something this weekend. I’d like to attempt a pie, but I also do not want to start a fire in the kitchen.

I feel a little less tired at the moment. A smidge. Then again, it might be the mocha. And is there anything wrong with that, a good mocha that can take the icky edge off the rest of life? No, there is not.