I've been kind of down lately. There are a couple of unbloggable things weighing on me, and that's why this space has been quiet but for the occasional serving of mishmash hash. Also, I decided that for Lent I'd write each day in an actual paper journal (I know! so retro!) and maybe I'm just journaled out.
I've been unusually tired, so much so that I wonder if I'm anemic or something. My attempt at a bike ride this afternoon left me so breathless that I went immediately to the natural food store to buy myself some Floradix. It's that same kind of bone-deep unfixable exhaustion that I associate with the third trimester. (Nope, not pregnant. Just tired all the time.) Alas, it was closed.
As you all know, I am embarrassingly drama-prone. This tendency sometimes causes a funk to explurple itself into a FUNK. (Explurple is a word I just made up to describe the thing that sometimes happens in the microwave, when you heat something doughy that expands and expands until it has burst forth from the confines of its dish and spread all over the place, hellbent on microwave hegemony.) Over the weekend I found myself thinking woeful dramatic thoughts about what a hash I have made of things in my life.
Remember the Gong Show? I need a miniature gong for the moments when the woeful dramatic chorus starts doing its thing.
So. A little extra sleep, a little extra sunshine, a big bottle of Floradix, a heaping helping of patience. That's my plan.
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