The gift in These titles mean nothing.

How much of ourselves do we want to give?

How much can we disperse into the world yet still stay ourselves?

Does anyone care? Do I even care?

Is the glass half full?

And what are we drinking anyway?

I define myself as my age. I don’t like myself for doing that. Who or what am I?

Every sentence ends with a question mark. Almost.

I am as happy as I feel I am able to be. I live in the bubble of life. This is me. This is who I am. This is who I will always be.

It’s not pretty. It’s not even wise. It’s this confirmation of time and being alive.

Someone I know on FB recently listed his adjectives. I thought what? Are adjectives like pronouns? Are they how we choose to be called or seen? His first was empathy - which of course is noun rather than an adjective. I did not correct him because he was so right. He is a very empathetic person. It might be what sets him aside from the world. He cares.

At the time I could not think of adjectives to define myself. But later the me of me is so big that I can always see how I am. Not that I dis. But I’m stingy, lazy and diabetic. I asked my son if I was literate or creative. I thought I might be both but he said literate was closer. So there are my adjectives.

Stingy
Lazy
Diabetic
Literate

It must be time to do another jigsaw puzzle.

Or walk myself through some more house laps.