Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday.
I work full time, eat 3 squares a day, drink too much coffee and then stay up too late reading when I know I have to be in the office early.
Sundays are laundry days, but I never seem to get to the laundry until Tuesday. My housemates and I let the dishes pile up, then we all bitch collectively about whose fault it is for the atrocity that is our kitchen sink.
I listen to NPR every morning on the way to work, call a friendly voice on the way home to de-stress.
I read up on the news, go to rehearsals, have friends over for dinner.
There's something so comforting about regular things. Our routines and habits become the rhythm, the pulse, the things we do without noticing. I guess they seem regular, but I think they're kind of beautiful.
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