This morning I irreparably damaged one of my nicest pans by turning the burner on to "high" when I was finished instead of "off." I was alerted by the pungent smell of plastic -- which I initially dismissed, attributing it to the ever-present construction next door. I finally realized what was happening and dashed into the kitchen to see the sad sight of the handle forlornly slumped over, bleeding out its toxic innards onto the once-clear glass cover.
Yesterday afternoon I was telling co-workers that my brain has become too fragmented. I recalled H's insightful comment that my life was understaffed. It is becoming clearer that my being a solo act in all things is not optimal.
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