I can't hold my head up. I can't lift my arms. I can't feel my legs.
But I also can't complain about my weekend.
A babysitting session with the little man. A very timely phonecall from Hong Kong. A la-kopi session with my babe. A strangely girlie chat. A good forty-two minutes on the road. A Man United victory. A Chelsea draw. A new baby arrival. A favorite meal at Adam's. A chick who finally came home. A couple of chilled reds. A productive discussion about 'our' kid. A good sleep. A traumatic dream. A game with the boys in the morning. A "hot" shooting hand. A gorgeous tan. A cheap lunch of yong tau foo. A last-minute shopping trip with the hanny. A guilt-ridden acquisition of not one, but two new caps. A hearty chat over iced-skinny-latte. A new discovery in Far East Plaza. A game again, this time with the girls in the evening. A chat with the gorgeous one.
I can't wait to tuck myself into bed in a while.
I did well this weekend. I made it.
I didn't spare myself much time nor space to think.
Tired. Too tired to even think. And when you are too tired, you start to believe in everything you think.
I don't know if it is good advice, but I think it is working.
It is rather strange how twenty bucks can make me feel utterly rotten.
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