Exhausted. The little turbodiesel in the brainpan has been redlined for days. In fact, I think the turbo dumped a bearing a while back so it's been nothing but dumb, plodding horsies clamped to an overworked transmission.
Faces, names, places, technical specifications, questions on application and deployment, logistics hell, and the pain of cruising shelves where you can't read the packages or even recognize the livery.
Mind made up based on the pretty pictures on the package of cookies, the chips that look like a wholly artificial fakeout of some traditional local food I've never heard of and can't even guess at from the illustration, and a pack of Chesterfields because that's the only brand I recognize over the cashier's shoulder. Fuck. My great grandpa smoked Chesterfields. Do they even sell them in America anymore?
And there, just opposite, is a bottle of Jack Daniels that I know will go great right next to the bathtub in my high corner room.
Let's soak in a scalding tub with a glass of whiskey, fall onto the thin single mattress, and wait for my eyeballs to click open sixteen minutes before sunrise so I can work the dodgy kettle and fuel up with an hour of instant coffee before it's time to go slap the alien technology into working order.
Hey, friends - the work is just like I remember.
Same shit, different assholes.