There’s something about a hundred of something. It feels so….hundred-y. So….solid. So….a lot.

So….impossible.

A hundred days? Like, no way. I couldn’t make it more than three or maybe five. Seven days? Why bother. Thirty days? Well, you might as well tie me up and put me under the bed. Drop me off in the middle of the Sahara. Super glue my lips closed. Throw away the key. A hundred days? I must be pregnant. Or dead.

But look! Here I am- neither pregnant, nor dead! And one hundred and one days sober today!