Many things scare the pants offa me. In order to have an interesting life, I do them anyway.
I no longer give a shit, even a tiny bitsy little bit when men are offended because I let them know that inappropriate comments are unwelcome and unwanted.
…painted this blech-y blob and I felt better.
The damned thing is turned off most of the time because I’m trying to preserve my sanity.
Some of our dishtowels are well over 30 years old, bought in Scotland before my husband and I were married. Boy, linen sure does hold up well! I rarely notice that they are faded, torn, and stained because—you guessed it—I just don’t give a shit.
It does give me some joy, but is not the most important thing in my life and I am aware that most people do not give a shit about what I wear.
They migrate off of the shelf and end up on every available surface.But I love them and feel that there can never be enough time to read all the books I want to. So I don’t give a shit if they add to the clutter.