mental neti pot

Eight hours of boring-ass work suck the rant right out of me. I can't even rant about how boring work is.

How boring that would be?

Besides, even if it weren't boring, I'm just too ... something ... to work up a rant.

What am I? I'm not tired. I'm just ... spent? Spent has such nice connotations though. Of exhaustion after great physical exertion of a heroic or sexual or sexually heroic nature.

That definitely does not apply here.

Am I complacent? A complacent person wouldn't say they were bored, would they? They wouldn't notice. They'd just sigh and TCB (take care of business).

I'm definitely not content.

You know what I am?

I am irked.

I am weary.

I'm weary of talking about work and thinking about work. I'm definitely irked by doing work. I'd like to shake it off in one wild whip the way a teenage boy snaps pool water out of his hair.

And yet, after eight hours of work, that's not exactly easy to do. It has seeped into my pores. It occupies some of the empty spaces between my molecules. My psychic (as in psyche psychic, not ESP psychic) sinuses need draining.

I need a mental neti pot.