Why do I do that to myself, question the choices I make, question what I chose to do with my time?
My mind always tries to come up with fifty alternate scenarios, all of which are much more efficient use of my time.
But that’s just me. Call me practical.
It’s what my mom should have put down as my middle name on my birth certificate instead of leaving it blank.
Time management is such a thing with me. Nothing annoys me more than when someone wastes my time. I like to do things as efficiently as possible. (Except laundry. That sh*t can wait.)
Hum, now that I think about it, I should have thought about my deep need to be efficient when I was deciding to have kids. (Ha, don’t make me laugh. I never got the chance to actually decide to get pregnant. It just happened.)
But I digress…
My point is my brain shouldn’t have to act out a scene from a courtroom, pleading my case to a panel of jurors, making a case for why I have the right to do whatever the f*cking hell I want.
But I guess bad habits die hard, huh.
The older (er, wiser) I get the more I realize that I must put a stop to the madness, a stop to the inner dialogue of judgement and guilt. I don’t have to live my life as ordered by a drill Sargent.
I’m going to allow myself permission to do whatever I God damn please.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to return to my show on Netflix.