They are tired of me.
Tired of hearing about my plight on my own.
Tired of hearing about my plight with landlords and bugs and other landlords who couldn’t care less.
“Will you join us at the Oceanside Bar?”
No, because you are tired of my story. You say you aren’t, but I can see it in your forced smile, you’re done with me.
“What would you order here? What’s great?”
I can tell you, and then talk to you, but you will soon tire of me, as well.
“Are you a local? From here?”
Not in a million years. Or a lifetime.
These are very tough times. As my readers, I am sure you are tired of reading about them. Don’t worry, I am made more tired writing about them. Living them. I didn’t know from tired until now.