Heat-Crank

I've had a pretty good day, all in all. Of course, there was that moment when I reached into the cutlery rack for a spoon to eat breakfast with, and gouged a tiny but persistent nick out of my finger. Have you ever tried to eat cereal while holding your hand above your head and pressing it hard with the other hand, while the blood trickles down your arm? Takes some perseverence, I can tell you.

But all in all, a pretty good day.

Which under no circumstances accounts for why I'm feeling exhausted, famished, ratty as Hell and like I wanna take my ball back and stomp off home for a sulk.

"Heat-crank," said d when she saw me. "It's a thing."

So there you go. I have heat-crank, apparently. I think heat-crank means that fundamental sense of not wanting to do anything with anyone when you're overly warm. Part of me of course instinctively knows I shouldn't get heat-crank the night before a weigh-in, because it makes me want to eat, and it makes me want to take a sledgehammer to the bike, rather than get on it and sweat for a couple of hours. So tonight, I'm gonna have dinner, and play Yahtzee, and chill the Hell out, and I'm not gonna get on the bike.

Cue tomorrow morning's recriminations and "Should have got on the bike, clearly" monologue as I ramble into the wall about not having lost enough this week. But hey, whaddaya want from me? I have heat-crank, leave me be...