The Case of the Post-Yule Burnout

Goddamn. I'm tired beyond all belief. Let's not talk about gambling, or football, or the fact that I'm drowning in a backwash of sour luck and hopeless flailing. I've swum out about as far as I've ever swum -- the coastline of safety is not even a pale band on the horizon of the world at these distances. It's darker out here with my eyes open than it is with 'em shut. If the cold doesn't snap my lower extremities off, my spasmodic churning is sure to do it. Probably for the best, anyway. My legs are just deadweight, another thing that could drag me under. I'll add them to the tally of "things that are pulling me down," right under empty optimism, plans and whatever that hunk was I coughed up a while back.