Can hardly comprehend how great it feels to be reading a book again. Caught on to “Things I only tell my Friends”, by Rob Lowe. I was always into biographies; thrillers more me, I want to read about real people, much more exiting. Studying these last few journal entries have me feeling rather perplexed. I have been very hard on her, in my judgment. That’s hardly fair. In my defence, and a good one that is, I have been pushed to the limits and near beyond by work, work, work, sickness, babysitting, more work. Lack of sleep. All to severely diminish my reserves, now only finally looking to replenish them; in as much as I’m granted a night out at my own devies. Which I spent at work, extending my hours so as to get some time in the bank, and joining in at a friday gathering. Downed one single beer and it got to me in no time at all, felt dizzy and stuck to coke after that. Smart choice. Wore it off and took to the books. Even smarter choice. Have been a horried time. But tomorrow I’ll take K to the movies (“Tintin”) and dinner, and then there’s a weekend of work to fall back on. Not out of the loop just yet. But working on it.