For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Where Vernon J BREAKS his news
For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Good Morning & Happy Tuesday.
That guy was the 1st in his sport to do A, B, or C. He was just okay.
Today is Tuesday 11/22/V3.2 & its a good kinda day. IF you READ my previous entry you would know why.
I’ve 2 things to do today, but am blocked from doing one until someone else does something. It’s really annoying to be waiting on people to do something. I’m going to have to step up the requests.
The word of the day is poltroon which means A wretched coward; craven.
Have a GREAT Tuesday & treat each other with a smile.
From and including: Tuesday, November 22, 2011
To, but not including : Tuesday, January 3, 2012
It is 42 days from the start date to the end date, but not including the end date
Or 1 month, 12 days excluding the end date
We are going to be 33 next year.
YOU on Tuesday 01/03/V3.2! ME on Saturday 06/09/V3.3
From and including: Tuesday, November 22, 2011
To, but not including : Sunday, December 25, 2011
It is 33 days from the start date to the end date, but not including the end date
Or 1 month, 3 days excluding the end date
YOU know I don’t celebrate Christmas.
War on Christmas
From and including: Tuesday, November 22, 2011
To, but not including : Thursday, November 24, 2011
It is 2 days from the start date to the end date, but not including the end date
From and including: Monday, November 21, 2011
To, but not including : Tuesday, February 14, 2012
It is 85 days from the start date to the end date, but not including the end date
Or 2 months, 24 days excluding the end date
What is meant by “reality”? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable—now to be found in a dusty road, now in a scrap of newspaper in the street, now a daffodil in the sun. It lights up a group in a room and stamps some casual saying. It overwhelms one walking home beneath the stars and makes the silent world more real than the world of speech—and then there it is again in an omnibus in the uproar of Piccadilly. Sometimes, too, it seems to dwell in shapes too far away for us to discern what their nature is. But whatever it touches, it fixes and makes permanent. That is what remains over when the skin of the day has been cast into the hedge; that is what is left of past time and of our loves and hates.
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf (1882–1941), British novelist. A Room of One’s Own, ch. 6 (1929).