Squalor and the Meaning of LIfe

Being free to live in squalor is one of the perks and one of the dangers of living alone.  I have, unfortunately, a high tolerance for squalor, so even when I intend to clean it up, my true interests draw me like a magnet.  This morning for example, I went online to find news of my beloved 'Ana Taufe'ulungaki, who is supposed to be retiring this year.  She started teaching in 1970 in the same village I started teaching in Tonga.  I found out that she had taken leave for a month on medical grounds, and I know a little bit about her medical concerns, so I'm worried.  If they had the word "enshalah" in Tongan, that's what she would be saying:  God willing, she'll make it to retirement.  I had no response from a photo I sent her a couple of days ago--a photo with two of her sisters, both deceased.  Then I saw that a good friend had contacted our department head to say that I was having a gathering for a colleague who died last week, and she gave the time.  But I'm NOT having this gathering.  I mistakenly posted it on Facebook, a tool I'd better not use so freely.  So I sent an e-mail to correct that misunderstanding.  I started the sample report for my ESL 142 students but interupted that to e-mail a friend who was planning a small gathering for the retirement of another member of our birthday group and me.  I felt I needed to make a comment on Joan Collins' glamour at 81, too.  Then I went back to bed before rising again and reading the fascinating newspaper.  TO BE CONTINUED.
I also submitted my online forms for the brain health registry as well as sending messages to Jim Canning (moving after 34 years), Jerry (about 42^nd St. Moon and Archie being killed of), Ron and Camilla Bixler, Linda and to the brain health registry.  

I did virtually nothing about the squalor, and now it's time for me to check e-mail from my students and get to campus.