The Morning After

So I used my birthday to make lots of wishes and think good thoughts. And I can't really complain, because for whatever reason, I'm the most comfortable in my life that I've been in a really long time. Pretty much since I can remember. But I still have problems and I still feel bad about some things and I know my life isn't perfect.

But at least I don't live in Houston anymore.

I don't go to bed at nine pm, either. I can still party, but not so much like a rock star. More like a princess, with fancy wine and champagne sitting at the head of the table with a tiara and waving at everyone who sees me. No thrashing of hotel rooms. I guess age has made me a little more demure. But I still stay up late. And I still shove my cell phone into my fancy little clutch purse and don't know how to get it off of speaker phone mode. So things are pretty good.

My horoscope said I would turn into a butterfly by February, which I'm not sure about. That would mean the next few months will be spent as a slimy caterpillar. Which I'm not sure is accurate. But I suppose its all relative. It's a little weird to feel old and satisfied, as if the angst I've been carrying around for so many years just got misplaced and now someone else is stuck with it.

This sounds like someone else. I'm a little puzzled about the absence of the sad stuff I've been writing for such a long time. It seems so abrupt and non-tangential. Because nothing has really changed. I still live right on the poverty line, still have no career, or direction, still love someone who won't love me back, still believe spinsterhood is my destiny, and still wonder if I should get back into therapy. It just seems like it doesn't matter all that much anymore. Maybe I've given up on having the perfect life. Or maybe I've seen the perfect life doesn't exist. Or maybe it's not so perfect after all.

It's mysterious.