opposite

I've been so tired lately. Everything I do exhausts me, wrenching the energy from my fists and robbing me of desire to indulge in anything worthwhile. The paint fumes are making me feel woozy; they're clouding my brain. I want to go home.

My hands and hair are speckled with white primer and half-hearted effort. My belly demands a change of habit. Please spit out your mouthful of sin, belly. Unwanted. Shoo.

I am lazily craving a sober cigarette for the first time in a long while. Something to attack my body, something that won't leave me feeling like a huge, sad animal, perhaps from the pachyderm family. A mammoth, maybe.

I am drenched in lack-of-purpose.