Not at all book or journal related but I spent last night painting the breakroom at my workplace. My coworker and I picked the colors (aa combination of custom mixes and company branded colors) and combinations for the room, and I’ll bedamned if it doesn’t look darn good. A combination of soothing browns and terracotta walls with latte and terracotta colored cabinetry, looks awesome. I was pretty happy when it was all over with and we stood back and looked at our work and saw how terrific it looked. The reactions of my coworkers was pretty darn great too. Considering the breakroom looked, well to be blunt, like a shit hole before hand so anything would have been nice.

As a result of all that painting and cleaining I’m tired and sore today. It’s a lot of work to paint a room while moving the stuff in it around. But it makes all the difference in feelings. COlor and cleanliness can affect mood.