There is something about Sunday that justifies the rest of the week. It’s like a reconciliation of emotion, a washing away of frustrations. Sundays soften slights, and things that ran so deep and urgent on Monday become whispers on the last day of the week. There are no regrets on a Sunday; no mess-ups or…
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I wonder what my breath smells like. Sometimes when I have oatmeal for breakfast, my mouth feels pasty. It can also be a little yucky after too much tea too, but that’s just how it feels. I don’t know what it smells like when I’m talking and it reaches out to someone else’s nose. Following…
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