This Is What Burn Out Looks Like, Motherfuckers

Dear Dumb Ass,

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been running my ass off for the last several weeks.

I’ve driven hundreds of fucking miles. I’ve circled the airport terminal more times than I care to count. I’ve washed sheets and remade guest beds. I’ve planned outings and excursions and meals from a pantry that hasn’t been stocked in 3 weeks. I’ve been to the beach for something like 96 hours. I’ve spent another 57 or so at one amusement park or another.

Oh. And? I’ve been working full time.

My days have consisted of getting up, going to work, rushing home to entertain, collapsing into bed, and getting up the next morning to do the whole fucking thing over again.

Except on weekends. On those special days I have gotten up, dashed off to the most recent tourist attraction, and entertained until my feet cried and I eventually fell asleep.

Oh. And? Gotten up extra early two Saturdays to keep an appointment that you made, but couldn’t be bothered to get your happy fucking ass home in time for.

As absolutely ecstatic as I am to have been able to spend this time with family and friends, here’s a news flash for you: I’m tired. Fucking exhausted. I spend the afternoons and evenings fantasizing about some much needed and too long postponed down time.

I’m hanging on by my toe nails here, and feeling guilty as hell because I don’t feel like I have enough to give.

So excuse the fuck out of me if you’re offhanded remark that I haven’t “talked to you much” lately irked me, just a tad. And I am so, so terribly sorry that your observation that I don’t seem like I “really want to” spend time with your parents pushed me over the damned edge.

Hello? Was that not me that just spent alllll weekend between tourist destinations? Was that not me that got the guest room ready one more fucking time and restocked towels on more fucking time and offered to drive to the airport one more fucking time in preparation of their arrival? Was that not me that was home and making plans for dinner long before you brought your happy oblivious ass home from work?

Don’t you fucking dare act like I haven’t been just as much (if not more, fuck you very much) involved with their visit. That was ME that encouraged them to stay for 12 days instead of 6 – remember? That was ME that assured them they were ALWAYS welcome in our home, no matter how much company we’d had before. And it was ME who gave them lists and lists and lists of things that they could do.

And now you’re going to play the “see, this is why I don’t talk about my feelings” card?

PuhLEEEEEZE.

Play that passive aggressive manipulation game on someone who hasn’t seen your ability to turn a cold shoulder to my responses. Maybe they will believe that you’re just so damned sensitive, you simply can’t stand the idea of anything you doing upsetting me.

You don’t “talk about your feelings” because you’re afraid of your big bad wife? You’re afraid you’ll have to “deal with [me] feeling inadequate”? Oh boo fucking hoo. Seriously. I have neither the time nor the energy to deal with that bullshit right now.

And do you know WHY?

Because for the next 6 days, I will be spending time with our family.

Asshole.

Signed,

Your Wife

PS: You should seriously consider investing in a day planner. And schedule the last three days of the month or so that your wife will be hormonally incapable of dealing with your shit. FYI.

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