My soul is a wrung-out dishrag. Or was, at least, for the last few weeks. It’s better this morning.
I’m trying to find the right metaphor for my life. Spinning plates? Juggling? It’s like I have plates I’m spinning, knives and lit torches I’m juggling, and Hail Mary passes I’m throwing all at the same time.
This doesn’t make me unique, it just makes me …
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