Saturation

Lots of things have saturation points.  That's when nothing more can be absorbed or dissolved or sucked up.  It's when a sponge stops expanding and starts losing water as fast as it's collecting it.  It's when sugar can't be stirred into the tea anymore.  It's when your stomach is full.

No matter how much sleep I get, by Thursday (and even more so by Friday) I'm exhausted.  My patience is depleted and my brain starts to close down.  My manners disappear and I react instinctually and negatively.  Normally my spirit animal is a Koala.  Utilitarian (two thumbs per hand), often misunderstood (as bears), angry, petulant, sharp claws, pouch on their belly for carrying contraband, but for now I'll chew a leaf and take a nap.  Once I'm saturated, I become a monkey throwing feces.  I don't stop at insults, I bring in personal information and past experiences about my target and try to bury them deep in cement made of regret and embarrassment.

So then the question is, am I saturated yet?  No.  I'm alright for now.  But I squeeze and squeeze to get the water out and I'm still a little damp.

Luckily, there is medicine which addresses the symptoms: good coffee, drumming, sex.  Sleep and exercise work as well but since they're a part of my life anyway, more meds are needed.  When taken on a regular basis, any of these will keep you from blowing a fuse.  There is also a cure: Max.  Max is almost two years old.  He's a combination of Border Collie, Aussie Shepherd and psychic.  He cures all and he's all mine this weekend.

One more night, one more day, then it's off to Fishers to desalinate.