Here's to five miserable months on the wagon and the irreparable harm that it's caused me.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I love what I do. When a month goes by and I'm not working, I'm miserable.
Once you get into a routine of eating healthy, it hurts twice as much when you fall off the wagon.
Life is too short to be miserable.
I was miserable as a kid.
I spent half my life being hurt. The leftovers of hurt are an automatic gesture, like a dog that salivates.
I have been blessed with a good, fun, and wonderful life, but I've also seen a whole lot of pain.
I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on summer humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and all the good things that a good God gives.
What makes me unusually intense is that I personalize the pain of war, the pain of children being killed, the pain of a 16-year-old who has been permanently cheated by his school and cannot read.
My life has run from misery to happiness.
I was happy in the midst of dangers and inconveniences.