It’s Sunday night at 6pm. My week is ending and beginning. I am worn down to a nub. I am fat and tired and my teeth hurt and my hair is greasy and my bangs just will not do a damn thing I ask them to do. I desperately need a pedicure, but I don’t even have the energy to pour myself a basin of hot water and submerge my feet. I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks. My eyebrows could use some help, too. I think that I might have ringworm on my hand. It’s not exactly a circle, but it looks weird. So I’m putting antifungal cream on it anyway, just in case. The cat has been acting odd all weekend, yowling at me for hours on end, then hiding under the couch. I hope he’s not sick, too. The therapist asked me to tell her who I am, and I froze. I don’t know. Tired? Hairy? Unkempt? Unmoored? Unhinged? I’m too tired to have a glass of wine. It’s bedtime. Let’s just sleep this day off, and work with whatever we wake up with tomorrow.