Sometimes I get home from my ridiculously easy job and think I must have some sort of chronic malady, because I’m in a weary fog and too tired to draw. And then, while I’m in the middle of sketching out my periodic interpretation of this feeling, I suddenly remember that I only slept three hours last night. And probably the night before that. Oh, and my diet runs the gamut from hot dogs to burritos to spoons full of peanut butter (somehow scooped to the size of an apple and eaten ravenously over the sink).
In other words, I’m exhausted by my swingin’ bachelor lifestyle. It’s probably exactly the same for George Clooney.