Pogo curls up on my lap as I type, a welcome furry blanket. The skies are December skies, the temperature hovers near 40. Two days ago, the air conditioner ran as the mercury hit 90.
The neglect of daily chores punishes my conscience; my body refuses to cooperate. With PH or any chronic disease, you never really know what kind of day you face. You hope for an energy day, you might have a molasses down a glass day.
If I do nothing else today, I need to make a meatloaf or the meat will spoil. My intentions and my reality often are at odds. The couch rests adjacent to the TV and calls like a best friend, "Come on, you know you want me. I will envelope you in a warm, comfortable embrace."
Good news, the meatloaf cooks in the oven, the squash and carrots are on their way. I plan to eat myself into a coma and then go see my friend couch.
I love special days on Google. Today celebrates the World's Fair.
Later, Dude.
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