Once in a while, while I take in a place, I notice details I suspect most people don’t think about.

The art is hung by two screws and the wire is hanging above the frame. it takes focus away from the art.

The tables in the restaurant are off center to the windows and doors.

The trim in the bathroom was cut at 90 degree angles, so I notice every join while sitting on the toilet.

This is my life. I notice things. I appreciate this super power and at the same time wish I didn’t have it. I often wish I was less intelligent, too, and less sensitive and less intense. Being less of these things makes me think I could have a less complicated life. That perhaps one of my four love relationships would have lasted.

If only I wasn’t myself, I think. If only.

Then I remember my commitment to myself and how I love myself for exactly who I am. And I know I can’t change me to fit into the world. But mama, it hurts a lot sometimes, being the noticer. Being the one to spy bullshit from miles away.

I’m tired. I’m wrung out of energy and I don’t know how that happened. I guess the Covidlandia malaise coupled with my general dissatisfaction manifest as tired.

It’s a lot of work to constantly flip the switch and help myself get to a positive perspective. A lot. And you know what? I’m usually able to do that genuinely and truly. And sometimes—I’m just angry, disappointed, frustrated or sad.

It’s my birthday weekend. I’m turning another year older Tuesday. I’m not happy that my life is where it is. I’m tired of trying to find someone to share it with. All the first dates have just made me feel even more alone and lacking connection with someone—right.

I’m just going to allow myself to stay in limbo. It’s obviously the life lesson I need. I’m not a fan, but the universe has been slamming me in the face for long enough. I guess I don’t have any more energy left to fight it.