It’s raining.
My hair is frizzy (and dirty). I want to think it looks cute, but then realize I’m aged and contemplate at what point adorable tips into disheveled.
Whatever.
The rest of the week is a wash. Tourists already clog the sidewalks and I have to wiggle my way through, often avec chien.
I stare at the egregiously priced three-wick candle on my coffee table - purchased this time last year - wondering how anyone has four hours to quite literally burn while the entire top of the candle melts.
The answer is absolutely me, I do.
I have all the time during which I’m - currently, seasonally - burning hard earned fun tickets on things I envision having a Better Life from.
Lol.
... And then that decorative tray paid for my health insurance.
Nice one.
I text a few friends, looking to be swaddled from my spending.
No one answers. They’re still “at work”. More likely, they’re down their own rabbit holes.
It can all be returned, I self-swaddle, knowing that absolutely nothing will be returned. But the possibility alone satisfies me, and I order another three-wick candle.
New traditions die hard. No Brucey.
Cashmere Hats: 1
Three-Wick Candles: 2