Friday was exhaustive. I know things happened, we did stuff, possibly of interest, but mostly I just don't remember. The in-laws left and Goose and I muddled through mountains of homework. I'm pretty sure I took an unreasonably long nap sometime in the afternoon and then fell asleep.
February, in case you were somehow unaware, is my own personal version of hell. It seems to last clear through March, and it's early April before I feel like I'm getting my soul back from the winter she-beast that stole it from me. It's strange, because winter here isn't very wintery at all, and yet I find myself listless and the grumpy/anxious/pacing around kind of restless for the duration. I find myself singing Bright Eyes songs, ad nauseum under my breath.
I dreamt of a fever, one that would cure me
Of this cold winter set heart...
and so on.
(Not that I'm complaining about that particular aspect, more like I'm including it as a somehow necessary detail whose importance is not yet fully understood.)
As a result this bloggy kind of open letter to you ends up being a bit lack-luster, but such is life I suppose.
I do hope, Dear Friend, that you're starting to heal up nicely and that the universe is starting to cut you just a little bit of slack. I love you tons, and I hope you're well. Kisses.
Song of the Day:
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