Life in the Slow Lane

One hour, twenty minutes seems to be the commute time, more or less. I puttered around at a Duchess, which seems to be some sort of fake McDonald's or something, to pass the extra time before I was supposed to arrive.

My car passed the 100,000 mile mark on the way there this morning. It seems silly to call it "rolling it over" these days, since the display handles six digits fine.

Given eight hours work, three hours commute, and eight hours sleep, that's only five hours per weekday to write, cook, and otherwise live my life. Is this acceptable? I'm not sure.

I'm going to try to keep up with journaling. With any luck, there'll be as much composed thoughtfulness and fatigued rambles like this.