I find that it is always easier to write when I am displeased or distressed.
It is always simple to fire off paragraph after paragraph of angst and righteous indignation.
Today is the first day I haven’t been ready to kiss California goodbye.
Seeing my life in boxes makes it real.
Despite this, I am in good spirits, and wanting to desperately write a blog about it but I am holding back for a multitude of reasons- I fear that my words won’t do it justice. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.
There’s an amazing picture of me at my going away party, but I’ve been looking at it for the past two days wondering why I like it so much- it’s not really that flattering and I’m holding a corona- it makes me look like a damn alcoholic, but- I look happy. Not a little bit happy. A lot happy.
There’s a picture of me from my twentieth birthday in which I look as happy.
On that particular birthday I had everything I wanted- and I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. I will always remember that night for the very special things that happened in the course of it, they are fond memories despite the ugly chain of events that resulted from it.
The last month or so I’ve become myself again.
That particular picture of the night will, again, serve as a reminder of the amazing things that happened in the course of the night.
I’m still smiling.
