I never seem to get around to the things I ought to. Which seems insane when I haven't any kids to deal with or social life to maintain. But somehow there is still this time warp where you just lose days playing catch up with your own sanity and awareness.
See, now I can't talk about yoga and hot baths without being insufferable. Thumbs getting ahead of the pen, that's the trouble with the predictive text option on a journal. Especially when you are all zenned out and medicated.
Isn't that better? Now I seem insufferable and burnt out. But what I seem is of little interest when what I am is relaxed enough to cry over beautiful things.