I don't like being told what to do. (Well, maybe not ENTIRELY true, but that's between me and the coffee pot, as it were.) Of late, I've had... A little more than a week to myself. For the month. No one's fault... I enjoyed time with friends and family. May is a month when I need to be out and not thinking. (Not stinkin' thinkin', anyway.)
I'd like the pleasure of hating my apartment. I don't like it, but I feel oddly affectionate towards it. Sort of like when I would see News of the World on the magazine racks... God, I miss that horrid paper- with the garish 40-point headline: "Camilla Parker-Bowles gives birth to three-headed bat baby!"
And I'd look at the terrible image and smile to myself. Maybe it was the baby's six jug ears and rather surprised expression. "You're so ugly, you're cute!" A small part of me would croon.
Where was I going? Before I decided to wax poetic on a terrible "newspaper"?
But I took on too much, in the middle of a reaction to a new dose of an AED, around Mother's Day, and with situations I know more about than I should.
I can concentrate again. Somewhat.
Here and there I have a face palm moment and have to remind myself that I promised not to face palm until I saw stars.
The walking is helping. I have to use parking lots... Thankfully, there's quite a lot of interconnected lots around here.
The dancing helps. It's not pretty, but it's effective and I don't indulge what ifs.
And that's what it's all about, Charlie Brown.