My birth days suck, it’s just how it rolls and I just try to deal the best I can. This birth day was supposed to be different cause I was going to cuddle baby monkeys all day and night. I didn’t and it wasn’t. I consoled myself with ½ bottle of Fat Bastard (wine, not a person). But!
I was so hopeful that I had beaten this nasty bug. A day at the spa was just what my imaginary doctor ordered. I felt pummelled and wrapped in mud and filled with wonderful food and wine. I arrived back to the sanctuary moderately filled with vim and mild vigor.
When the newborns are brought in they are cared for by loving humans 24/7 and are never alone again. Their humans do everything for them, the babies pee and shit and crawl all over them and we smile and tell them how awesome they are.
My flight was to leave at 11:30 am Dec.24/16, Saturday. At 2am, Dec.23/16, Friday, I woke gasping for air. I was to find out later from the emerg doctor I had pneumonia. NONONONONONO Despite my hysterical explanation that I was going to Africa and I couldn’t possibly have pneumonia he stuck to his diagnosis.
Recently I got real wound up reading a post by a solo woman traveller. She wrote about a pervy older guy getting all up in her face, all aggressive and started following her from island to island, even staying at the same hostel, in the same dorm (!!!!!!!) as she was. The problem was that she was nice…
I sold my condo and made a nice profit – YAH! But if you think having more money would make deciding on a path when I retire easier, you would be wrong. Maybe if it were like a kajillion $$$$, it would be. Nah, it would increase choices, there by increasing the level of difficulty.