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Every day this past week I've left home cheerful and optimistic, ready to take on the world. And every day I've come home exhausted and defeated, curling up on my bed to sleep my troubles away. Usually I skip dinner.

It's never anything particularly dreadful. It's the little things. The small annoyances that you can forget about while you're asleep and showering in the morning, and those little petty things people can do to make each other miserable. Sometimes they do it to me, sometimes to other people. The worst is when I catch myself doing it. Making a face at the cashier for being slow, or rolling my eyes at the girl with the umbrella taking up the whole sidewalk. Making a biting remark to a customer at work. I'm exhausted well before it's time to go home, and my mood is quick to follow. The rest of the day seems tedious.

And then I sleep and something about the rest makes me forget what was bothering me. I just think that it must have been a terrible day and go out assuming that today will be mine. I wish I knew what it was about getting rest that makes me forget.