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📓 Monday, November 17, 2025 — 6:13 p.m.
Tap, tap, drip, drip — the rain saying hello on my roof.
I’m wrapped in a blanket, sitting on this comfortable old club chair, feet up on the matching ottoman, typing away. Again.
Took a bunch of medications today for this cough.
Might be a sinus infection.
Might be a lung infection.
Either way, I’m drugged up like a walking pharmacy.
Found out my liver sucks — can’t process cholesterol.
Explains the belly fat.
Explains why my body stores everything right up front like I’m hiding a secret.
The rain keeps tapping the ceiling.
Keeps insisting it’s here.
And why do I write again and again?
Because again and again, I need it.
Like medicine for a cold.
Like steam for a clogged chest.
Writing is how I decompress —
shitty thoughts, daily routine, all the noise that builds and builds until I have to let something out.
It’s not perfect.
But it’s honest.
And that’s enough for today.
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