A few days after I published the "Writer,", my youngest sister went on her Christmas break. This meant that I didn't have to go in so early anymore, which was fine really, as this translated to more sleep, less stress, and better hair.
Now that the new year has come around, I have begun spending mornings in the ultimate torture house. Here, my every step feels like my last, and slumping in the steam room and taking a hot shower are the only two things I look forward to. So yes, 2005 has brought out the sadomasochism in me.
I still do find myself in that cafe, though. It's the venue of my weekly SATC lunches with the Goddesses (those who are free, anyway), and my officemates and I sometimes go there to hang out. But things are obviously not the same.
Sadly, the nursery of poems has become just another coffee place, and the writer in me has once again disappeared.
