You know the one.
It’s made of wool.
It has satiny trim that tries to deceive you into thinking this will be a nice blanket experience.
But it’s not.
Every house has one.
It’s buried deep in the bowels of the linen closet, under some afghans and a comforter with the down coming out of it, but make no mistake.
The scratchy blanket is there.
And it waits.
As the world falls down
Patience is stale and I am weary of it! Even the little white lies are starting to get to me.
this is actually more accurate than I’d care to admit.