If Sundays are cliché, Mondays ambiguous, Tuesdays metaphorical, Wednesdays ironic, Thursdays reserved for continuity and Fridays repetitive, then Saturdays are a breath of fresh air.
Upon stumbling out of bed this summery sunshiny morning, I deploy my jazzing hands with reckless abandon. In terms of routine, this deployment is not unlike other Saturday jazzings, but there is a subtle difference. I just can't put my finger on the specifics. I'm happy to have noticed, though.
Every single day that is not a Saturday, makes actual Saturday seem that much more attractive. Now that it's here, I am going to take full advantage. I will slow down time if I can muster the strength to do so, although I'm almost certain that it will be here and gone in a flash. The good news is that Sundays are not half bad either.
It's an incremental difference in the scheme of things.
Today's Jazz Hands are a much needed remedy for my variety of incremental illnesses.
Day two-hundred and fifteen complete.
Every single day that is not a Saturday, makes actual Saturday seem that much more attractive. Now that it's here, I am going to take full advantage. I will slow down time if I can muster the strength to do so, although I'm almost certain that it will be here and gone in a flash. The good news is that Sundays are not half bad either.
It's an incremental difference in the scheme of things.
Today's Jazz Hands are a much needed remedy for my variety of incremental illnesses.
Day two-hundred and fifteen complete.
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