lamenting, naturally

I do not like that the days, months, and years are going by so fast. The pages of my life are turning too quickly. The year of my birth feels much too far away.

And so I ask, all the time, what have I done? And what am I doing? Why haven’t I don’t more? I still haven’t tried to bake my own bread. Even that supposedly easy “no knead” one.

For years I have wanted to visit Door County again (last time I went was during my childhood. There are goats on a roof and I want to again see those goats).

I do not own a cottage by the sea. Or even one by water. At this point, I would certainly settle for a little house by a Great Lake. And there would have to be a paid gardener involved.

Anyway, I’m writing. I believe with all my heart and soul that no matter how great the internet is and how much easier it makes one’s life, it is ultimately an evil thing. Mostly because it keeps me from too many other things. Certainly I would have gotten more writing done. Certainly I would have baked more cakes and made more dinners. Certainly I would have read more books.

My eyes are bothering me more. Is it my glasses? Is it the screen? I do not like this. But going to the eye doctor is such a pain (you know, um, scheduling and um, parking) and they put those stinging drops on your eyeballs and then you feel guilty for not buying the eight thousand dollar frames from their business and have to sheepishly ask for your prescription so you can be cheap-o frames online. Yes, cheaper than Warby Parker. Ones where you have to upload a picture of your big headed self and do a virtual try on.

All things are degenerating.

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