I'm absolutely exhausted and not even in a satisfied kind of way.
(Yes, that is possible...you know exactly what I'm talking about.)
I don't necessarily mind being completely worn-out when I've gained some sense of satisfaction out of it — collapsing on the couch after a day filled with a flurry of productive activity, soaking in a warm bath to ease the aching of my muscles after a good workout, or (my personal favorite) sinking into the sheets, completely spent after an intense lovemaking session.
But this? There's absolutely nothing satisfying about it. In fact, at the moment, I cannot think of a single redeeming quality of this particular brand of weariness. Like a dog chasing its tail, I seem to have exhausted myself in a futile quest for answers to riddles that, by their very nature, leave no room for resolution.
And it has all been compounded by outside forces who seem hell-bent on ripping away the last remaining vestige of my sanity.
So now here I am, completely drained, too zapped to even be angry at the circumstances (and dipshits) who rendered me lethargic and too fucking tired for rest.