Two things happen when I’m tired.
Scenario A: I’ve been deprived of my recommended eight hours Z time, have stay up beyond the time a decent sleep-loving person should (typically, 9.30 p.m.), and have moved into the land of the coffeeless-zombie. In my case, it really is coffeeless, since I don’t drink coffee, so my only excuse is a deep psychological connection with my inner granny.
By the time I’ve reached this stage, my vocal chords have stopped vibrating and my facial expressions have packed up shop.
It’s best not to try to talk to me. I won’t remember our conversation.
Scenario B is not as intense. It involving less sleep deprivation, where my past four-year-old child takes possession of my body and laughs hysterically at jokes involving farting or recycled toilet paper.
The conversation I’m about to share with you can’t be attributed to either of these scenarios. It’s just straight up juvenile.
Please don’t tell my mum.
She believes she’s raised a mature adult.