I've not gone running in almost a week. I drift between pangs of guilt and shrugs of not giving a shit. The two are spread out evenly, the pangs and the shrugs. I figure that's pretty healthy - a good balance always is.
While not running I've done other things.
I've noticed a lost hubcap. I don't know when I lost it, and I'm pretty sure I'll never find it again. I don't miss it. In fact, I'm tempted to get rid of its two remaining brethren. They're tattered and make an awful racket when the windows are rolled down. Perhaps if I wait long enough they'll all be gone.
I've been to a funeral. I got there late. I stood outside the door and listened for awhile to the muffled eulogy before entering with the other late-comers.
I've held back tears and helped dry others'.
I've given a lot of hugs.
I've received a few myself.
I've driven a lot, and as such have not drunk enough.
I've not worked on the book. This also provokes pangs and shrugs, though with less balance. There are far more pangs than shrugs on this one. I figure that's pretty healthy too.
I've contemplated life, death and the universe a great deal and know no more about any of them.
I've watched the first series of House on DVD, and wondered whether I was funnier when I was grumpier.
I've chose sleep over exercise, friends over sleep and orange juice over beer.
The latter might have been a mistake.