I suppose when a teenager asks how I am I shouldn’t answer with TIRED, NAUSEOUS, GASSY. Just being honest.
I finally let the news out at work so I can walk around with my pants unbuttoned and complain about being tired, although neither of those is new things, but at least I have an excuse now. It’s funny, or not, that most of the time when someone comes to me to say they’ve heard they immediately ask how old I am. I’ll be 41 next month. I’m a dinosaur.
I feel pudgy, but the scale says I’ve gained one-tenth of a pound, and that might just be the kitkat I had for breakfast, BECAUSE I CAN.
And now for the cute picture of the day. The closet cat and the bunny that no one plays with anymore: