Close to breaking point

I'm struggling. I'm not sleeping properly, I'm going to bed too late, I'm leaving the office too late at night, and my beard is suddenly itching so much it's a massive effort not to tear at it with my bare hands.

If I wasn't so tired, I'd be more efficient at work. If I was more efficient, I wouldn't be working so late, which means I'd be able to get to bed on time, which means I'd get up early enough for some decent exercise rather than a meaningless 1k every morning, which means I wouldn't be tortured by my own facial hair.

In a situation like this, it's easy for every little difficulty in life to inflate into a massive catastrophe, the likes of which no man nor woman has ever had to deal with before.

I'm sure I'm not the first person to engage in low-level warfare with recalcitrant accountants, or have a computer that occasionally runs too slowly, or an air conditioner that constantly blows uncomfortably cold air down the back of my neck. But sometimes, as these things stack up, the pressure robs me of perspective and even though I know I'm being daft, I can't stop myself.

I wonder if the start of this was running too far on Sunday, or drinking too much on Friday, or staying up too late reading books the previous weekend, or wasting time working through analysis of causal chains on any given evening when I should have been asleep.

Whatever. I need to get some shuteye, and hope when I wake up tomorrow, my head doesn't hurt and my heart is clear and I'm ready to face the next day. It's just that staying up late to mindlessly dick around is just so, so, tempting, even when I recognise the idiocy involved. And I have Fight Comic tomorrow night, so if I was hoping for a decent rest, I need to get it in tonight.

I'd write something more cheerful, but I'm broken. I think I need to read what I wrote about the Chicken Art Museum in Seoul again, and then it will all be alright with the world. It's amazing how representations of poultry can bring us good cheer.