I was going to bitch about how tired I am, but then I read a few of my favorite bloggers and withdrew that idea. The fabulous Mrs. Chicken is at the end of her tether. The writerly Her Bad Mother is on an emotional roller coaster. And while I in no way endorse the idea that one can't complain about fatigue until one has bébés, those girls certainly put my small sleepiness back into perspective.

A busy week, then, is all I'll lay claim to, a week that saw me working four different jobs: Kite store Sunday-Monday, up to Kamloops Tuesday-Thursday to rehearse some new actors into that show, arranging music for upcoming Stanley Park show yesterday, role-playing for the Standardized Patient Program today. Starting at 7:30 in the bloody morning. SP is fun, though; a chance to play various ailments without any of the pain and inconvenience of actually being sick. (And a great way to do your part to make sure that prospective doctors and nurses are up to snuff.) I can't tell you what my particular ailment was, because we sign a confidentiality agreement. But it was a pretty easy one. By the end of the day, fatigue and the harsh fluorescent lights in my cubicle made my eyes feel as if they'd been cleaned with sandpaper.

I was also going to muse on the lack of responsibility in my life and how this may or may not make me a bad person. But I've decided that my time can be better spent writing my dad a nice email to check in on how he's holding up. I've had a long week; he's dealing with the fact that his wife is deathly ill. I'm not saying the email will make me a saint, but it's probably better than all this navel-gazing.

BTW, why is everybody who takes the Greyhound a white-trash mouthbreather? Does that make me a white trash mouthbreather too? 'Cause I've probably logged more Greyhound time over the last few years than some of the drivers. How come I never meet hot musicians on the Dog? Only the aforementioned WTMs? There ain't much difference between a plane ticket price and a bus ticket, people. So roll up yer Heavy Metal Magazine, yer thundering iPod, yer snot-nosed, snaggle-toothed toddler, and fly Westjet. Please.
Ok, that was judgemental and elitist. But I defy you to disagree with me if you've ever been on a full Greyhound, 'kay?