Running on Empty: When the Tank Hits Zero and the Farm Hits Back.
Today wasn’t just a long day; it was a full-scale emotional and physical heist. Between the relentless demands of the land and the mental gymnastics of modern life, I’ve officially reached the “staring at a wall for twenty minutes” stage of exhaustion. Here is the unfiltered truth about hitting the wall.
The Art of the Absolute Collapse
There are days when you feel like a high-performance machine, tackling chores with a whistle and managing your schedule like a pro. And then there is today—a day that didn’t just drain the battery but seemingly melted the entire charger. If I were a smartphone, I’d be at 1% with the screen dimmed, desperately searching for a low-power mode that doesn’t exist in the world of agriculture or entertainment.
When you’re a comedian living on a farm, “being drained” isn’t a quiet affair. It’s a loud, dusty, and often ironic series of events that leaves you wondering if you’re being filmed for a prank show that never ends.
The Slow Leak
It usually starts with one small thing. Maybe the coffee machine decides to stage a protest at 5:30 AM, or the “quick” task of checking a fence line turns into a three-hour odyssey involving a mud pit and a lost boot. By noon, you aren’t just tired; you’re “farm tired.” That’s a specific kind of fatigue where your bones feel like they’ve been replaced with lead pipes and your brain has the processing power of a sourdough starter.
In the city, being drained means you had too many Zoom calls. On the farm, being drained means you’ve engaged in physical combat with a stubborn gate, negotiated with livestock that have the collective IQ of a head of lettuce, and tried to maintain your “brand” while covered in a fine mist of pulverized hay. By the time 4:00 PM rolls around, the thought of having to form a coherent sentence feels like a Herculean task.
The Mental Fog
The mental drain is perhaps the most treacherous. It’s that fog where you walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water and end up standing in front of the open refrigerator, wondering why you’re there and if the butter is judging you. You try to write a joke, but the only thing your brain produces is a list of things that are currently broken or leaking.
Social media doesn’t help. You see people posting about their “restorative evening rituals” involving lavender oil and jade rollers. My restorative ritual today involved sitting on the porch steps, still wearing one glove, and wondering if I have the physical strength to untie my shoelaces. There is no aesthetic to this level of depletion; it’s just raw, unvarnished “done-ness.”
The Recovery Phase
But here’s the thing about hitting zero: it’s the only way to ensure you actually stop. We spend so much time pushing through the “low fuel” light that we forget what it’s like to just… sit. Today drained me because I gave everything I had to the day, and while the tank is empty, the work is done.
Tonight, the “show” is over. There are no punchlines, no captions, and no grand plans. There is only the quiet of the rural night and the realization that tomorrow is a new chance to do it all over again—hopefully with a bit more gas in the tank. For now, the most productive thing I can do is absolutely nothing.
