Last Summer
I like to think I am not too too much of a spoiled baby, and that I try hard to appreciate all the great things in my life. That said, I think that if I had to live at home all summer, I would die. Just, like, some necessary part of my spirit would shrivel up and blow away, and my body would just kind of keel over and stop moving. I'm tired and lonely and always treading carefully over the most sharp, fragile little eggshells. I mean, I fully acknowledge that I don't always do my best (I don't even know what my best looks like. Maybe it would be spectacular), but it would be nice if someone would realize that I do try.
One more week. One more week and then laughter and conversation and hugs and book clubs and cheap boxed wine and sunshine and my last summer. One week. It's not such a long time.
One more week. One more week and then laughter and conversation and hugs and book clubs and cheap boxed wine and sunshine and my last summer. One week. It's not such a long time.