The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight by Jennifer E. Smith

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The deepness of it, the sheer scope of it, so big it was impossible to know where it ended.

I am skipping this week’s post. It’s a stupid week. We are having weather. Wet, smudgy weather. It’s soup out there. It’s loud in here. My head hurts. I am getting a cold. The children are blue because there’s school today. I’m blue because I’m working on a blah project at work and that’s what I have to look forward to. I want to go back to bed with a chunky, absorbing book and a cup of tea. But I am required elsewhere.

I’m skipping this week’s post because of an obvious lack of inspiration. Words are not the answer, this week. Words are the anti-answer. Words are escaping, they’re rebelling, they’re refusing to cooperate, but not in a cute way. They’re refusing to cooperate in a stupid way.

I am skipping this week’s post because it is supposed to be all holiday-like and pretty out there in the world, and instead it’s mushy and complicated and unyielding. I have not one iota of holiday spirit. I have anti-spirit. I have blahs.

I am skipping this week’s post. I will spare you the ick. I hope in your world things are pretty and bright. I hope you are excited. I hope you are hopeful and content. But if they are, if your world is a wonder world, spare me the details. Please. I want to like you.

See you next week. I will be more entertaining. Promise.

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