On this date in 1829, nothing much happened. Same as today.

As relationships go, this one’s crap.

It’s nothing more than stolen moments, paper-thin alibis — all take and no give. Yet I can deny her nothing. And I can’t shake her off.

Procrastination is my mistress.

She knows my weaknesses and plays them against me. She promises ease and delivers anxiety.

She walks in with time on her hands but she walks off with all my time, too.

It’s not her fault.

I can dither like nobody’s business. It’s practically my superpower.

This morning, we set the clocks back and got one precious hour of bonus time.

I slept through it.


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