Imagine you’re close the end of a long race. You’ve been running all. day. long.
The finish line is in sight. You are literally 50 steps from it.
At this point, the… let’s call them “race coordinators” tell you to get onto a treadmill. So now you’re running and you’re getting nowhere. You’re exhausted and you are supposed to be done by now, but you’re still 50 steps from the finish line. No matter how much you run.
Now imagine the “race coordinators” start throwing shit at you. And they scream at you. And then they’re like, “DANCE, MONKEY. READ US SOME FUCKING STORIES.”
And you’re just still there, running on that treadmill, 50 steps from the finish line. Tired as hell.
And then they increase your speed and incline.
And you’re just like, “BUT I’M SUPPOSED TO BE DONE BY NOW. OMG. LET ME OFF.”
And they’re like, “I need some watttterr! I have to go pottyyyyyy! Keep running!”
And then you finally distract them long enough to get the hell off and cross the finish line and drink a beer and pass out.
And then you start the same damn race all over again the next day.
For me, bedtime every night this week has been a treadmill on center stage at the Shit Show 50 steps from the finish line.