But what's actually happening is NOTHING. Because I have allergies up the ying.
So there are no house projects. No painting or rearranging or clutter-clearing or tidying.
No running, because though I made some brutally good playlists, I'm either leaking fluids out of my face or lying in an antihistamine torpor.
And no writing, either. It's one of those weeks where writing seems like a terrible idea. Which doesn't happen often, thankfully, but it's an uncomfortable thought to have nonetheless. There's nothing else I love to do as much. Nothing else I really do that well, either.
I sound so emo! I feel like I'm breaking up with myself.