How are you doing? How was your weekend?
Wait...I already asked those questions, didn't I? Don't worry. That's not my concussion talking, that's just regular, distracted me.
My husband says I don't have one, by the way. A concussion.
So I was all: Oh, really? Then how come I always forget carpool?
He just stared at me. And I had the grace to look away.
But not before I saw pity in his eyes. And it wasn't for my concussion.
But enough about me...we all know how I can go on about these things ad nauseam.
Yesterday I received these pictures of Sophie, taken during a recent volleyball tournament. They make me happy, looking at them.
And something else.
They make me want to harness that energy and go out and storm the world. I want to cross ten miles with every stride, fists clenched, hair billowing, breathing fire upon anything that blocks my way.
Most of the time I will sit nicely and sip hot chocolate and inquire about your weekend.
But every once in awhile, flames shoot out of my eyes. I feel like plundering the coastline. And everything that bothers me, everything that's been weighing on my mind...better scurry. Better run for cover. Because I've reached a limit. I've sapped my politesse. I'm not on a path, I'm on a warpath. And I'm in no mood to take prisoners.
All this from the vicarious thrill of looking at these pictures.
Thank you, Zachary.