Last weekend, I was in a funk. It was ugly. Like, laden-with-guilt ugly. You see, I have to make an effort every single day to keep moving, to do the next thing, to check items off a To Do list, big or small. I make lists in my head, on paper, in my phone – they’re how I know what to do next with my time. It’s not uncommon for me to write out my own schedule for a Saturday or Sunday, just to keep myself beholden to something, to keep me from exactly the kind of day I sank into on that Sunday. And I don’t think it’s like…