I’m one of the “quiet ones.” You know a few of those, I’m sure — they have the reputation for being the worst offender of whatever wrong is being discussed — and it’s true.
The more I yak yak yak about my situation, the better I feel.
Lighter. Bubblier. Like I’ve sloughed off a bunch of gunk that was gumming up my system and it makes me happy.
Yakking, (apparently a real word in the real dictionary) and the stupid Father Time thing.
Or just the Father Time thing.
He’s such a narcissist. I’m the only one who can heal things. I stand still for no man, blah blah blah.
I’m going to keep yakking, even though the ears listening are just about at their max capacity, I’m sensing.
That’s ok. I think I’m just about at my max capacity for yakking about it.
Ppppffft! Who am I fooling?! When it gets too much, I’m just going to yak it off.
You have been warned 😉