Dear my life.
I hate you. Or at least, I hate a bunch of stuff about you.
Most days, I’m generally too busy to remember how much I hate you, but every once in a while it becomes glaringly obvious. Like when I realize I’ve had a “prescription” for hip physio for more than 2 months and I can’t even find time in the day to make the phone call and get a consult.
Life, why are you so crazy-full of mostly things hateful to me? And the worst part is that I don’t think there’s much I can do to fix you. But maybe one day I’ll find the time to make that appointment. You know, so that our hip doesn’t kill us all night when we’re trying to sleep.
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