And here comes the weekends nothing apparently get done. Except for the clothes all washed and neatly folded.
I must have been messing around with myself telling myself that I deserve to-not-get-anything-done period. Even resisting to get out of the house, and those pillows and cleaned just-got-out-from-the-washing-machine's duvet and bed looks so comfy and attractive every single time.
Every. Freaking. Time.
Except for food. How could I say no to food?