Stupid tired

So tired, tired beyond belief, tired to the point that I feel I should be describing my physical symptoms, sensations, to some kind of sleep deprivation scientist. Squinty eyes as rough as sandpaper, achy, pressing pain across the entire front of my forehead, extreme fine motor skill dysfunction as I struggle to find the right keys. Brain dead pauses as I try to remember what it was I was trying to say. Look, it went into random italics then and I never even realised, didn't deliberately make a dash for emphasis. Just happened. Freaky.

It's no good, I am defeated. Cannot continue with this for a second longer. The cocktails are kicking in and I'm on the road to dreamland. But before I totally lose a grip, it's confession time:

I am such a bad, bad mother. Today Eddie asked, really sweetly, if it would be ok for him to get his hair cut at a barbers. He's 18, and never had a proper haircut, only me wielding a pair of scissors or clippers – badly. How sad is that, poor lad? He's never one to grumble. Proper job too – dead sexy (am I allowed to say that)? Not thinking straight. Need to go to sleep, now.