January 25

Weekends have, over the last few months, increasingly become one of two things to me: refuges from the almost-certain insanity of work, or alternate flavors of insanity, with socializing taking the place of relaxing and the hope being that a change really is as good as a rest, like they say. This weekend is one of the latter, and I find myself feeling old in a way that I am surprised by, and grumpy about. I feel I should be less set in my ways and inwardly demanding early nights and time to unwind beside a fire with a good book, silently fearing the work week ahead (Oh, it’s such a week ahead, oh god), and yet all I want to do is crawl away from the world and be selfish for awhile. Next weekend, I guess.

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