I laugh with everyone else when they post texts from their Mom peppered with profanity as the auto-correct takes hold of the device. I’m sure that if my Mom were texting me, her messages would be equally hilarious.
Typing too fast in Scrabble chat gives almost the same effect.
With my head tucked, my oversized Aerie shirt slides up over my face…
“I’m okay,” I murmur, transfixed by my reflection…
I’ve managed to curb non-essential spending by online window shopping and pinning the fuck out of colourful things on Pinterest…
“Wait! What did that sign just say?” Rissa asks as we careen around a corner as the rough gravel road turns even rougher, then strangely becomes less gravelly and more made of dirt and grass with a light covering of snow. “Dangerous: Unmaintained Road.” “What?!?“ “Use at your own risk.” “WHAT?!?” “It’s a short cut.”…
When I get to the bedroom, David is doing deep lunges…
I’ve got the PF. Plantar Facsiitis. I can no longer run. I mean, sure I could run if something was chasing me – or if a building was on fire – but I’d pay for it later. I’d get up the next day, attempt to stand on both feet and then collapse to the floor…