I’ve spent a few years cleaning up my act. I’ve done a good enough job that, in general, I find talking about my life to be sort of dull. Excellent. Additionally, I’ve gotten my act together enough that I have a sufficient living and a house with a shop and, eventually, gardens and orchards and things.
Somehow, though, in the span of about six weeks, I am fraught with drama again. I didn’t want it. I don’t want it. I don’t believe that emotional turmoil improves life, nor is necessary.
But here it is.
I’m still parsing which bits I can speak of publicly without causing myself problems, so I’m afraid that’s about what I’ve got.
Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry