It’s a soggy day. Very poetic. Fog enfolds the bare brown hills like a blanket. It hides parts of them and if it were much thicker you wouldn’t see them at all.
I’m so tired. I’m drinking some Starbucks Holiday Blend that honestly doesn’t taste any different.
I woke up late this morning and took too long getting ready – surprisingly not because of my hair or face but my clothes. I haven’t folded my laundry from last week and I already have to do it again. I spent ten minutes fishing out tshirts and sweaters and jeans before I found something that matched.
I was only ten minutes late to class.
I forgot my headphones, so I can’t drown out the chatty group across the room with some angsty indie folk.
But you know, it’s a good day. I’m warm and dry, which are two of the best things in the world. I’ve just finished reading some Little Women, which sort of inspires you to cozily plod along through your burdens.
I get to go home to have lunch with one tall-dark-n-handsome guy who gives the best kisses, and I just made bread, so sandwiches are on the menu. Maybe we’ll take a nap afterward.
(I wish it were possible to eat and sleep and give kisses all at the same time, but unfortunately I think all that does is make you choke.)
It’s a good day because despite the silly squabbles and petty whines and stupid fights we get so worked up about, God is infinitely more gracious with us than we are with ourselves.
I love my little life in the Pennsylvania hills.