It's tax season. It's funny. Tax Season. Like Holiday Season, like deer hunting season, like seasonal festivities. Nothing warm or funny about taxes, however, my son does taxes. Time to roundup everything and present it to him in a big fat pile.
The cockatoo has not escaped, but there has been so much sun in the south windows and he's been preening on his branches, he's not caring about escape. He's vocal enough to drive my daughter out of the house for hours at a time. I don't even hear him, but I do know he's very loud. I'm going back to bed, I'm killing off the last bits of this cold with sleep. And oxygen. I'll miss my oxygen if I end up losing it.
Bill collectors .... well, only one, it's not like I'm inundated with them. Most of them don't call anymore, but this one, calls once a month. My fragile mental state makes them uneasy, I suppose they don't want to be the cause of me finally killing my entire family and myself and blaming them. I don't have those fantasies anyways. I'm a loner when it comes to suicide ideation. I really am not going to share my final relief with anyone else. Some things are just meant to be private.
My Paleo coach is having a hard time with my situation. I warned her up front that despite my wishes to be better, I didn't have much reason to do so. She also can't find a good reason WHY I would avoid a huge round loaf of fresh baked bread that was baked full of garlic cloves and flavoured with some dill weed. I mean, she gets it. Maybe she has the same struggle. Giving up grains and sugar will be the hardest and probably most difficult things for me. I love my damn cereals, even if Fruity Pebbles is full of stuff that kills people. Damn you Monsanto.