It’s all about me. No, really. This is the part where I complain a lot.

I feel crappy. I’m tired and I want to complain about it. I might be catching something after the past multiple days of not sleeping well and taking care of a sick, cranky toddler. Maybe I’m just exhausted and run down.

I haven’t managed to get out mountain biking for weeks, which may be my own fault, but that’s not the point. I haven’t been riding to work, which is also my own fault. I have many reasons not to ride either bike which I won’t get in to right now. That’s still not the point.

I feel crappy and I want someone to give me a day where it’s actually, really all about me. I want a fancy retreat to a winery on an island, and a day of extra-special pampering, and to sleep all night long (oh, the decadence of sleep!) I want to have a ridiculously lavish meal created in my honour and to my taste.

My burnout level is high. My brain is beginning to suffer for it. Poor brain.