Lately, most days, I wonder why I bother to get out of bed.

One day blends into another.

The same thing every day.

The Curmudgeon repeats things so often now that I blow a gasket at first blush of another repeated dialogue.

My patience, once held onto by a thread, is gone.

I don’t want to do anything.

I barely speak to anyone other than him except for my outings with G.

If it weren’t for G I’d be completely out of my mind.