Don’t tell me I don’t know how to party.
Why, over this last three-day weekend I not only stayed up until almost 10:00 at night, I also took daily baths.
We’ll pause while that soaks in.
The sneezing began Friday morning. From there it was the downhill slide of confusion; irritability; cranial tension/expansion, both imagined and realized; and continual napping/fleece wear.
I did not see a zipper for three days.
I, of course, feel robbed. Not by the lack of a zipper in my weekend, but because if I wasn’t wearing real pants, it means I wasn’t where I should be: out amongst the peoples, drinking in the new year, eating various tasty dishes, scribbling notes on damp napkins.
What good is a three day weekend, particularly over the New Year, if you can’t go out?
Here is where, in a good post, I would get thoughtful, line up all the things I learned about myself over 72 hours of second-floor isolation and wrap it up with something insightful about the nature of health and fresh starts.
This ain’t a good post.
My head – have I described the size of my head? Roughly the size and density of the State of Minnesota, it wobbles atop my neck, housing a muddled and suspiciously soft brain.
Hi. My name is Pearl, and I sneezed the New Year in.
Two Songs On The Trainride To Peace
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