If you've ever been a teenage girl.

We've all at some point been a teenage girl. I was a teenage girl for like, pfft, two weeks and was like over it. No big, bro.

Okay, so maybe only some of you have been teenage girl. I really just want to rip on some music lyrics.  I think I'm going to take back my feminist approach on this blog post and go ahead and say:

You only get it if you've ever been a teenager.  Because, lawd knows, that being a teenager is confusing enough and most teenagers use music to feel things that matter.

We have no idea what's going on.

Selena Gomez : Come and Get it

Now, I like Selene Gomez. I think she can sing very well.
I think her lyrics are stupid as $#17.
She's very pretty. {Look at that, compliment sandwich.}

The song that I've been playing for a while now is 'Come and Get it.' Now, she's legal to start with. So, this edgier sexier song isn't pedo-licious. It's just dumb.

Selena is leaving an open invitation to a suitor to 'come and get it.' Which seems pretty provocative and yet not. Since she's basically just waiting for the dude to make the first move and that she theoretically won't say no. It tries so hard to be coquettish and it's just never going to happen that way. I think we (society) still like to think of ladies as demure and passive. I think that's what Selena is trying to say in this song. But, honestly, it don't make no got dang sense:

All day all night I’ll be waitin’ standby 
{Stand by mode; when your PC takes a nap}
Can’t stop because I love it, hate the way I love you 
{makes no got dang sense}
All day all night maybe I’m addicted for life, no lie. 
{addicted to life, but on stand by}
I’m not too shy to show I love you, I got no regrets. 
{she's not shy; just in stand by mode - there's a difference!}
I love you much to, much to hide you, this love ain’t finished yet. This love ain’t finished yet… {This love hasn't even started, so I guess technically it can't be finished?}
So baby whenever you’re ready… {See? no got dang sense! She's actively not doing a damn thing to get you to do something?}

B*tch all be trying to get my man!

I can understand that fine line of wanting to get your crush's attention but not wanting to look like you're trying to get his attention. I remember the girl in high school who used to wear the low cut shirts and just sit around and pout all day. It was like fishing for her. She'd set out the bait and LITERALLY anything that bit she would reel in and take. This was the most bizarre thing that I'd ever see and it almost is like a weird talent to be able to aggressively not get a dude's attention and get their damn attention.

Why these lyrics suck if you're a teenage dude:
This is why young men walk around with 'swag.' They think that young ladies will just be ready for them whenever *they* are ready. Teenage boys already think that they are invincible and music like this would seem to give them the idea that REJECTION DOESN'T EXSIST. If a girl shows interest in you once and you let her stew on it a bit, she'll be all cray cray for the "D" at all times. Now, teenage boys (henceforth referred to as 'Dudes') aren't trying to get all up in the love bid'ness. They don't see the emotional attachment that comes with 'being in love with a teenage girl.' So this first set of lyrics don't sound too bad.

It gets worse as it goes on:

You got the kind of love that I want, let me get that. 
{'let me' means that the man has to allow her to get it; passive position}
And baby once I get it I’m yours no take backs. 
{She's now made herself a possession and not a person - sweet}
I’m gon’ love you for life I ain’t leaving your side 
{That's only really sad; her whole life is going to be stuck to this dude [Honey-boo-boo breedin, I believe]}
Even if you knock it ain’t no way to stop it 
{So, the dude doesn't even have a choice; if he gives in to his desires he will be stuck with her [dang, I already made a honey boo boo reference]}
Forever you’re mine baby I’m addicted no lie, no lie 
{Now, the dude isn't even a dude! He's a substance to be used!}
I’m not too shy to show I love you, I got no regrets. 
{Gentlemen, now is the appropriate time to run}
So baby whenever you’re ready….. {to ruin your life}

I think teenage girls think that you have to find the 'one' as soon as possible and there is a very small window of opportunity to do that. Now, this might be true for some girls. Particularly the ones that THE ONLY THING GOING FOR THEM IS THEIR LOOKS, the ones that only talk about themselves and have absolutely no substance at all.  This is also true for the ones that never want to work a day in their lives and strictly use the money that their resentful teenage husbands give them for allowance. Then yeah you may want to go ahead and just ruin your life. OR you could develop a personality. I kid! I kid! I know that's too much work for your pretty little heads! {If you don't have goals in life, I'm not going to pretend to have them for you. Just bein' honest.}

Okay, last lyric I want to talk about:


This love will be the death of me, but I know I’ll die happily
I’ll know I’ll know I’ll know
Because you love me so…Yeah!

This is just the crazy cherry bomb on top of this stupid flavored sundae. If you are in love and you feel like that love is going to kill you THAT IS BAD. THAT IS ALWAYS BAD. This is bad if you're a young lady or a young gentlemen. You should NEVER be satisfied with a relationship that ends in your death. 

JUST TO RECAP:

DEATH = BAD.

You've followed the story of these lyrics - the two involved are not even in a relationship. She's just hanging it out there and hoping he picks it up. Yet, she knows that she will die happy and her death is caused by being in the relationship. {I mean, WTF.} She knows. She knows. She knows. Because their mutual lack of action is such an immense show of love.

GET A ROOM, YOU TWO!

...You've made up your mind.

It's a really random thing nowadays for a person to make a conscience decision. To me it feels like everyone finds a certain amount of comfort in having 'an out.' It seems like people love to have an excuse in their back pocket, like a hankerchief. Something handy to wipe up a faux pas. -Well, I can't make a decision like that I'm just a leasing agent. You'll have to talk to my manager who is not in the office right now. What's a good contact number for you so I can send her an e-mail explaining all the things that you just told me.- {Gross.}  So, yeah. This is the sick sad part of this new social norm that even the littlest of decision is such a big freakin' deal and have such high importance. For instance, I decided today that no matter what happened I would do things with a smile today. (But only at work.) {This < this<<< is what I felt so freaking cocky about all damn day.}{Double gross.}

That's why making a decision is such an achievement because you've made a solemn vow to yourself. There is a higher level of authority on the idea. It's become a novelty and a great conversation starter. {You know, today I told myself I was going to smile ...no...matter...what. *Collective Gasp*} When you take a stance on something there will always be something/one/duh that is going to attack it and try to bring it down. It's a more sophisticated kinda way to get attention.

So, like everything, every dropped call, every mind splitting headache, every snarky freakin' remarks I had this stupid grin on my face. I felt so 'professional' and cool and shiz. If there was a goddess of business etiquette, she would have smiled down upon me and wished me a long life. I would have gotten at least two thumbs up from a god (2/8). I was amazing...on the outside. Bleh. I'm not at all about hiding my emotions. I felt so fake. Yucky. I don't like myself at this moment and yet, ^ I was all braggin' about being blessed by a goddess. Gross right? I have no idea what that is or how to define expect for a nasty earwaxy texture bitter flavor in my mouth. Eck. Oh, just now. I am proud of myself for being out of my comfort zone twice. Focusing now though, today was a particularly annoying day because everyone around me made 'smiling' a very difficult thing to do. Why would people attack someone who just wants to smile. The only person I was trying to prove anything to was me because I was thinking 'Jesus, Jamie, you are one sarcastic and bit*hy outcast.' Secondly, the only person I told was the Universe and we pinky promised we would tell no one ever.

I am now going to pull what is called an 'unreliable source' which gives me an out. I have had a few to drink and I have become angry and sadish radish. <Meant to make you say it a few times. So I might be remembering or over-reacting right now. So, I myself have no freakin' clue. So now all interpretations of what you have made before seem moot. {Honestly, who do I need to sell my genius to?}{That's not my husband.}{Because we share the same bank account.} Which might be why I'm being so critical on myself. Maybe I just want to be myself in front of people instead of that 'whitebread halfie' that I put on every morning. Le sigh. Eh, whatevs. I didn't I win today, but I really can't expect to win them all. {Oh, look! I've made up my mind.}

...You have a pantry.

A pantry is neither a place where you keep pants nor a chivalrous state in which you are panting. A pantry is a place where you keep foods like canned corn, canned green beans, boxes of hamburger help and other various non-perishable foodstuffs.

Right now we are kind of on a budget and so everything has to be well thought out before it is purchased. Previous to me finding this job I was on food stamps. {I MISS YOU FOODSTAMPS. PLEASE TAKE ME BACK! I DON'T CARE ANYMORE THAT PEOPLE LOOKED DOWN AT US AT THE GROCERY STORE! WE WERE GOOD TOGETHER! TAKE ME BACK! BRU-HOO-HOO.} I liked being on food stamps. It was 300+ smack-a-roos (that was not taxed) that I could spend willy-freakin'-nilly on any stupid thing I wanted (that was a food-stuffs.) Life was goo~o~ood.

'Cept... ever notice when you have a fully stocked pantry (not a pant-related joke) that - a) nothing in that pantry looks 1)good/tasty 2)fast enough to make 3)has all the ingredients or 4)already made and ready for consumption b)no one wants to cook anything c)you always want to go out to eat even though there is plenty of food at the house? {If you read that sentence only once, two  gold stars. If read at least twice, one silver star, if read more than twice, bad. bad. bad!}  I mean, I can third-person-view myself looking into my pantry, that is from top to bottom stocked with yummy food, and distinctly remember thinking at that moment: Uh, but I'm the one who has to cook it!

I wonder if all that non-perishable food stuffs wealth somehow made me an lazy jerk face? I've never been money wealthy so I wouldn't know if that has any affect on my laziness. I am plenty love-wealthy...and I kinda do abuse that one.

I'm the kind of person (I hate that phrase 'I'm that kind of person' because that makes you the kind of person that has to overcompensate your ego with delusions of grandeur) that if the pantry is still stocked, I am not going to the grocery store. If we are out of hamburger for the hamburger helper then, guess what? We aren't having hamburger helper.  {Dang it. Dang it, Jamie.}

Anyway, I guess what I am setting up here is that our pantry is empty. Suddenly, things have never tasted better to me. I had white rice and canned tuna the other day. I became a freaking chef the other day. I had taken two separate ingredients, done some cooking magic on it, and made it into white rice and canned freaking tuna. We are out of rice and tuna right now. :( So tonight I made, leftover chicken tenders (from Kisig's lunch yesterday) heated them up and made 'dipping sauce' of mayo and sriracha.

I mean, they should just give me a chef-ing diploma.
I am a chef of highest of classiness.

Now that my pantry is empty, I have such an amazing appreciation of food. Especially bottled water. Ice-cold bottled water; that isn't open yet. I am drooling just thinking about it and my mouth is dry. Ugh. Also, I have found that my imagination for dinner is unbelievably rampant. I see uncooked pasta shells and I'm like: Oh, my lawd! If I add seasoned hamburger meat and red sauce on this it's like spaghetti only with shells! OK, so that wasn't that creative {I just ate sriracha mayo with microwaved soggy chicken tenders - back.off.}, but something very similar to that effect. The other thing I noticed, when the pantry is a shiver, is that everybody in the house is a chef suddenly and everybody wants to cook. I, then wonder, why my other 'poor' qualities have not sparked me in such a way. {Dang it, I am money poor and I do keep looking for more ways to be more money wealthy. Hm.} I wonder, how many other environmental stimulations I get. Do I actually want to blog or is it because the fire is very toasty? I know there are emotional responses to environmental situations. {Whoops, rein it it.}

{A chef can be a cook. A chef cooks. A cook can neither chef nor do chefry things in the pantry.}{Last one.}

I'm not sure in which state of being that I prefer. I kinda, right at this moment, am leaning towards having a full pantry. If only because I have a two year old reason for living. There is a small part of me that likes being humbled and grateful. I think this is a good state of being to be in, so I can remember to always strive forward and to never be stagnate. I wonder if there is a way to find (or even speculate) a good balance.

Remember (the parenthesis mean this statement is a part of the sentence!) {The squiggle thing is me taking to myself while I am talked to my readers.}{Dang it.}

You're in Therapy.

So, I would hope by now my readers have caught on to my writing style (or vicious ramblings of insanity.)

I like to use first person narrative to introduce my subject {"I" like toast {I actually hate toast}) and then leap into second person narrative ("You" [You the reader]) forcing the reader to be me via stream of conscious or "our" collective conscious.  HA! I am so clever. This is why I live on land and yet not in an igloo. The series of narratives allows for an awkward fluidity. A familiarity of phrase or voice that sucks you into my crazy and allows you to safely return to your normal every day life. Everybody wins! Fersrsly, I deserve a cake for this genius.

I also really like to use the /bold, /italic and /underline as well as fancy parenthetical things.I think letters (symbols) combined with symbols look very beautiful. Recognizable and sexy.

My therapist today said that I need to allow myself to grieve and that my "crazy and my trauma are intermingled and inseparable by my mind" (I paraphrased.) I feel reluctant. I also have such mixed emotions about therapy.

I've been thinking a lot about my friend, Laron, and how she lived her life. I still have an intense fear of being me in public. While, I think, Laron had her ups and downs for the most part she had a great grasp or who she was. I know who I am, I just don't like me.

I don't think I would mind being (because, unwittingly I have been), an advocate for mental health. This shiz is real. Yo. Diggity. No doubt. ... :D

Do you really think it's normal push every one away and be so selfish? Do you really think that it's normal to 'fly off the handle' when dishes are not put away? Does your mind sometimes not have that 'fresh' feeling? If you answered yes to any of these questions : 

Get Help and Quit being a selfish jerk.

I don't think there's anything wrong with me taking medication and going to therapy (privately, obviously, but I am trying to live like Laron for one week.) There are so many people living day-to-day who are undiagnosed with mental issues, who struggle much harder than I do. Or there are people who are well aware that there are issues to be dealt but would rather get the attention and be snobbish whores (I don't like those people.) I have danced around for a very long time and light-heartedly admitted to my problems. Well, now I want to own them, so they can't own me anymore. {Please search your IPOD for "Eye of the Tiger".}The difference between me and the 'people abusing the system' or 'the people getting hopped up on drugs' or 'people not like me' is that I am trying my damndest to be a normal functioning adult. I want to be happy. I want to work and support myself and my son. I want to not have a crippling fear every time I go out in public. I want to fight this epic battle. I am not giving up on myself yet.

I feel well aware of the stigma I get from the public because in private I feel the disapproving aura prickle my skin when I talk to loved ones. It's ok. Everyone is entitled to an opinion and I've always just kept it at that. I just think at this point in my life, during the circumstances, I need to be more assertive. I need to be me. I am mine. {And somehow I forgot.}

You wake up and you are sad. You go about your day because that's what you do everyday. Your mind is foggy, you act without thinking, your life is a blur. You eat your dinner with a dessert of a handful of pills and you go to bed sad. You can change your life. You can change the life of those around you. You don't have to be sad. You get up and you do the bravest thing you can think of: you ask for help. It's humiliating. You cry in front of your doctor (who has seen you blow dime sized boogers from every orifice {yet, telling your doctor you cry two to three times a day is so much worse}) and your doctor asks you a series of stupid and prying questions. Just answer them. Just get the help you need. You take the script to your local CVS and hope that no one knows the generic names for Prozac or Valium. You feel sad at the thought of needing to take pills to function. You reconsider 'getting help.' Just take your pills. It's okay to ask for help.

If your liver was failing and was acting up in such a way that the rest of your body was not able to function properly you would go to the doctor. The doctor would prescribe medicine and treatment to fix your liver and your life would slowly get better.

Your brain is an organ in your body. When it is sick; it needs treatment.

See? See what I did there? Srsly, guys, how do I turn this into a living? Man, I am going to bake myself a cake.

You shoulda/coulda/woulda (A series of incomplete thoughts)

I cannot preface enough: This is going to be ramblings. Feverish and unrefined. I am literally spewing (Shakespeare just high-fived me.)

Laron was born exactly one week before I was. I have no idea what happened in that one week that made us so dynamically different and yet so spiritually the same.

Laron and I graduated at the same time. We have the same sense of humor. We are both unbelievably hot.

If I could live that one week like she lived her life....

Everyone has their own way of grieving. I am an insane person. This is how I have grieved:

I feel like my body was the first to get over the grieving: I no longer moped and laid in misery sinking into ritualistic unhappiness. My mind was next. Logically, I cannot be mopey. I have a two year old. Logically, I cannot be a victim to my sadness; I was a lucky one. I knew Laron Short. She touched my life. She let me love her. She was a phantasmagoric gem in my spectrum of love. However, it is my heart that will not allow me to let her go. My heart yearns to the shoulda/coulda/wouldas. My heart aches to hug my friend and feel her warmth. My heart hurts.

Denial -
You awaken. Bluntly, you are told your friend has died.

Impossible. Laron just got home. She just lost her phone. No. She is still delayed in CA. She's not even in OK right now. This is stupid, Laron just got home. Home is a safe place. Laron is safe. Fumbling. Rearranging things to be orderly and correct (as you have severe OCD) No, see the shoes are in the shoe rack so Laron is safe and alive. She's laughing at the idea that everyone thinks she is dead.

There is a crippling pain in your back. You realize it's not your back. It's your heart and chest crumpled in over itself making your back ache. You have an anxiety disorder attached to a heart disorder. Your heart is not healthy. Your mind is not healthy. In turn, it makes your body not healthy. The pain in your back aches and you focus on your chest crippled in on itself. You feel like this concaveness is making you lurch forward. Falling.

Listlessness-
Luckily, your OCD is so bad that routine just falls into place. Work. Unfortunately, your OCD asks you to count in fours and your overwhelming sadness has cleaned your memory of numbers. Which means your world is not right; which means your friend is dead. Blank. Stop. Stare. Why didn't I talk to her more? Why can't I manage my time better to be a better friend? Why does my back keep hurting? Your mind snaps back. You're at work. Four steps to the ice machine. Four scoops of ice. Four steps to customer. Which means your friend is alive because everything makes sense. Success! Your heart aches. You don't deserve to be happy. You're in mourning. Wait? What am I doing?

Anger -
Chickasha is FILLED with assholes. Evil meth heads. Twisted drug dealers. Liars. Cheats. Thieves. But Laron was the one who died. JUST HOW FAIR IS THAT? It is UNACCEPTABLE. She was making a difference. She was challenging the world; the people; the collective mind to think and change and be better. She had such a defined sense of truth of right and wrong and the world is filled with EVIL. SO WHY HER? SO WHY HER?
There is no answer in the air. The world; the people; the collective mind is silent.
There is a building of tension in the shoulders at the base of the neck and the root of your mind that is filled with anger. It hurts. Which pisses you off more. Destruction is not an answer. Yet release is not in sight. anger anger anger.
There are people laughing at the restaurant. Without notice you are violently angry with them. How dare they laugh when precious joy has left the Earth? What fathomable reason do they have to feel the bubble of giggles when there should be a solemn pain. Hate.

Compliance-
Mind; body. They wait for you. With open arms. Just accept that you are hurting. Your mind and your body have accepted it. So why is the heart of you refusing to come?

I keep missing opportunities. I missed them with Laron and my heart aches uncontrollably. Who else have I been a bad friend too? Who else doesn't know how much I love them? My heart aches so bad. If I could just live one week like she lived her whole life I could be a better person.


In the same day someone has died and another has been born. The world is cyclical. My heart (my racing thoughts are/) is cyclical. I am a remorseful ball of confusion and yet of hope. This ball of confusion just keeps rolling forward. Stronger. Faster. With more confidence.

You *just* want to shave your legs.

Let me set this up for you:

{Imagine that like things go black and then there is like a stage and then like a big light goes "Ka-Cha" and a spot light appears. Enter -Moi-}

[Also, pretend that I am a sultry narrator and a really really good voice actor. You're the best <3 )

Not only do you work five hours a day as the hottest chick in your friggin place of employment, but you are also a cook, a maid, a surgeon for every stuffed animal in the tri-city area, a search and rescue squad for lost keys; socks; pants; sanity, and so on and so forth. Now in the wee moments between 'stuffing-their-faces-with-food' and 'disregarding-the-option-of-clubbing-them-in-the-head-to-make-them-go-sleepy-time' you have just enough time to rinse the day's sweat off of your totally sexy body. Yes. This is a precious time. The moments creep on into talking TV sheep time. You have 22 minutes to shower off 'yo stank' and, heck, that leaves you 20 minutes to shave your legs. This is the time in a young mother's life that fireworks should go off. :3

Now, like a wild lady whose clothes are on fire, you leap out of those nasty clothes. The water temperature is perfection in liquid form. All the items are there: soap, razor and water. (Sometimes when you've splurged the 3-in-1 soap/shampoo/conditioner stuff. It's like a shower in a bottle.)  You can hear the sheepy music of the telly and the baby is audible as well. From a room away, over the rushing water and even over the bleeting sheep you can hear him whipping around what *sounds* like cars across your newly clean floors.

"HEY! EASY IN THERE!" You yell...delicately.

Sweat is successfully off the body. Goal One Complete. You are a Goddess. You are bathing in a warm tub filled with ambrosia (well, 'yo stank') and as you scan your water palace...you notice a looker-on.

"Mama chower?" - {Translation - Mother, while I have noticed you have gone into the bathroom after announcing you were going to 'take a bath', I am aghast. Are you, in fact, at this moment, taking a shower?)

To which you eloquently reply:

Get out.

Back to the life of luxury, you soap up your legs and ready your weapon -that almost rusty razor-, your muscles releasing intense violence for all men and manly garments, you hear a loud crash with lots of little "pitter-pitter-pitters-splash-trample" and such.

Oh. My. Lawd-in-Hebben. If that was the millions of polished stones you just picked up, even the clandestine jerks that hid in the crevices of the couches, your mind could quite possibly explode. At least you won't have to clean it up.

"PICK THOSE UP!" - The Goddess from the bathroom shouts...oh, that's you shouting btw. You think, just one moment. Just a small collection of twenty two minutes of solitude and satisfaction...of just peace and quiet. (You can feel that wrinkle in your forehead just gloat). You can hear the remainder of whatever was left of a 'clean' living room being destroyed. You can also feel the temp of the water rising. Nay, you can *see* the steam you are causing by the anger inside you. The razor sweeps expertly down your leg. Schoo-Schoo-Schoo- You have enough control over body and mind to be all like:

"CAN YOU PLEASE JUST BE QUIET FOR TWO MINUTES?!"

That was a desperate move. They can smell desperation. You stop shaving. They can sense movement too. In one pinched second you begin to lift yourself -fumbling with the soapiness of the make-shift shaving cream called "Dove"- from the sheath of happiness (or tub) when you realize...silence....and it's not a trick. The sheepy is still singing on the telly but there is a halt on the destruction of your 600 sq ft apt. (IDK if that's true. In my mind 600 sounds really good when spoken aloud - 'specially in the awesome voice you've imagine. Bravo, you.)

Serenity. Warmth. Happiness....for two full minutes....

ohholycrapthebabyhaschokedonthosedamnpebbles!

You shoot up from the tub racing the two leaps it takes to reach the living room, sliding on linolium, stepping on sharp devil toys, *just* to see your happy baby sitting peacefully watching Sheepy TV.

"Mama owie." He points out. -Translation: Mother, I notice you have a wound. Look where I am pointing.-

Yes, young mother, you have shaved a third of a leg and scalped (applicable in this situation? I'm not sure, but, dude, fersrsly whatevs.) the rest of your hard working left right leg. The left leg pristinely covered in patches of hair. Oh yeah, baby, you shave a leg.

You're Exhausted.

Mental and physical exhaustion is the shittiest thing in the whole entire world.

aaaaaaaaaaaaand thanks for reading my blog.
;)

During mental exhaustion it is very hard to stay on task and not just do whatevs-the-hells you want to. I would go so far to say: Insanely hard. <Yeah, allusion to a past post, whoo!> Mental exhaustion creeps up on a person. Have you ever noticed that? I have never like all the sudden noticed that I am really frikkin tired of concentrating. It's usually like this:

 5 minutes into project:
Outloud: All right, bitches. Let's do this.
Mentally: All right, bitches. Let's do this.

10 minutes into project:
Outloud: Hell yeah! Look at how much I've accomplished.
Mentally: Ok, it's ten minutes in I've done about 18% of the work so I should be finished at about, ooooooooooh, seven ish. That's plenty of time to play COD: Black Ops and watch that movie was suggested two months ago. Yes!

15 minutes into project:
Outloud: My eyes are soFRIKKINSICKOFSEEINGTHISTHING. *Deep inhale* Just maintain for another ten minutes. Get this halfway done and call it a night.
Mentally: whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?

45 Minutes into Project:
Outloud: Bleeeeeeeeeeh *drool*
Mentally: *drool* {Side note: Someone draw that picture for me. Your brain drooling. Heh. I'm hilarious.}

----
Physical exhaustion is arguably worse. Getting bored is fixable. Hop on facebook every two to three minutes; refresh page; get annoyed that there are no new alerts and stare at word processor again with pure rage. :D However, physical exhaustion is only (usually) resolved with sleep. (KEEP READING! I'M SORRY I SAID SLEEP. I'M SORRY! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE.) Sleep for a person within my circle is like a four letter word. Only it's like a four letter word that actually offends them; not the four letter words that they spout off in greeting {Patrick}. This being the case: sleep is never a fix to physical exhaustion. Staying up as long as possible and pumping chemicals into the body is the only reliable tried and true method of myself and those about me.

THIS IS WHERE IT GETS HILARIOUS.
Often times mental exhaustion leads to physical exhaustion and the test that I like to use on how exhausted someone is, is how accepting they are to the idea of coloring. {Say, what?}

Yes, coloring.
Kind of exhausted: Yeah, I'll color in a minute.
Exhausted: I guess.
Totally exhausted: Oh, maaaaaaan, coloring sounds so great right now.

Coloring is creative which alleviates the stress of the mental exhaustion and is extremely easy to pick up and put down. Coloring is not strenous so physical exertion is never an issue. This is also true for someone who is completely and totally wasted.

Next time you see me at a party; I'm carrying crayons. :D