Okay, so yeah, tomorrow is Monday. But… it’s a short week that ends in pie, so it’s not so bad as far as Mondays go.
Do you ever just have one of those days? Yeah, well, it’s been of those weeks here. The whole week has been like one big reenactment of Lucy and Ethel at the chocolate factory, but with no candy to make up for it.
But tomorrow is Saturday… and that makes everything good again.
That moment when you realize that Sunday will inevitably morph into Monday and as we all know… Mondays are fraught with trepidation.
You know, I didn’t realize it, but we have royalty among us commoners at my humble abode. Although, if I had been paying attention, I would have noticed sooner. I mean the evidence has been there, right under my nose and on my clothes, this entire time. It became evident the other day though as I was vacuuming said evidence off my couch.
May I present for your worship and adoration, ‘Shaylee the First, Her Royal Highness of Savagery and Grace, Defender of Her Realm, Queen of the Pillow Mountain and Surrounding Territories.’
me to dog: awwww hello there sweetie! are you having a good walk?
dog’s person: yes we are!
me to myself: excuse me, but i wasn’t asking *you*
The horror story to end all horror stories…
This might be surprising to you, but I talk to people. I talk to people at work and online and while I’m out and about. I know, right!? I’m just as shocked as you are. These conversations are varied and cover a lot of ground and generally work to highlight my social ineptness. People loooovvve to talk about their personal lives? Have you noticed that!? Yeah. So anyway, I’ve been privy to a great deal more information that I would ever in my life want to know about people, but it’s not as though you could just cover your ears, yell NOOOOO and walk away. I’ve tried. I was told it was rude.
The one thing I find fascinating though is just how active people my age are… now I’m not yet ready for a senior living development but I’m also not a spring chicken. What the hell is a spring chicken anyway? Aren’t ALL chickens spring chickens, when you really think about it… I mean, given their own druthers, that’s when they would be born, just like with all birds, right? However, you might be interested to know, that it’s not a matter of when they’re born, but when they’re eaten that denotes a spring chicken. Go figure.
But I digress.
These people I talk to, they enjoy telling others about all their activities and accomplishments. I mean, of course they do, right? And they’re my age, just so we’ve made that clear. Rock climbing, mountain climbing, cross country skiing, extreme hiking… you name it, they do it. And me? I’m over here trying to put on my underwear without toppling over. But nobody ever wants to hear about that.