The proof is in the pudding: work is multiplying like loaves of bread. And everything takes forever. Contrary to complaining, and contrary to being contrary to complaining, this is it. This, not that. That's impossible. I want to get so good at grammar so that I don’t have to be so good anymore, so that the unintentional seems premeditated. I’ll only have to say, “Precisely.”
In about a month we’ll have a yard sale and I’ll title a post Everything Must Go and tell you when and what goodies there will be. It won’t be so melancholy as the song of the same name, and in fact I can almost guarantee that there will be joyful music and a pink dress for sale that I just couldn’t figure out how to wear. But maybe I’ll just keep it, maybe this is its year.
Oh and I’m tired. It’s late. I was up early.
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