The rambly fifteen, #17.

Fifteen minutes straight writing…begin…right…now.

I had more to say last week. To write, to explore. Not much this week, and so begins another edition of “the rambly fifteen”.

Watching the D-1 women’s basketball championship. Kind of hoping for a Notre Dame upset, which is a strange concept. The part about wanting Notre Dame to win, I mean.

There’s some study out this week that says 33 is the perfect age for happiness. Ha. Other than my twin nieces being born, 33 was a pretty rough year. A major health scare of another family member, my own emergency open abdominal surgery and a five-day hospital stay, then finding out that my reproductive system was/is a hot mess and knowing I’d need another open surgery to clean up what couldn’t be done during the first one.

That being said, I am holding out hope that 36 is a great year when I turn that age in a mere six days. That it will be the year of awesome. I deserve that after a few years of suck. Right?

I wrote some crappy poetry tonight amidst the pizza-and-wine routine I partake in every week or two. What can I say, National Poetry Month brings out the crappy poet in me.

I wrote some crappy poetry, and I’m writing this rambly blog post. When I should be working on my résumé. Getting some cold feet about such a big move, though. Which makes me wonder about those hives being stress-related.

After a week of those hives, I think the itching and scratching is finally over now that none of that has happened for 48 hours. Avoidance of ibuprofen is now of utmost importance until I can confirm with an allergist. Or dermatologist. Not sure which I should see when I am ready to confirm that sort of information. Again, it could all be stress-related.

Snow is over and spring will return tomorrow. As a friend said, I see the snow as flame-retardant against wildfires…