I’m better now. My birthday proper was actually quite nice. I went to a nice concert with two of my friends. Got sernaded by the band and everything. Three days later is when I fell apart. This happens every other week or so, although usually not so bad. Proximity to my birthday was certianly an aggrivating factor. I get shaky and sniffly and feel vulernable. I curl up and And, apparently, I sometimes commit terrible poetry. (Q, I am so very sorry.)
I feel like I have acomplished nothing. It does not help that many of my friends from college are becoming rediculously acomplished badasses. (Go, Sam, go! Rock that fuckin’ Bar! Teach the shit out of those kids, Kayt!) And here I am, struggling through a job I hate, no end in sight.
It could be worse. I could still be homeless, a state in which you have nothing but free time that you can never enjoy because you’re so freaked out about being homeless. Now, I at least can come home and enjoy myself.
Or, I can, when I’m not having a fragile day. You’ve now all seen what happens when I have one of those.
And on and on it goes.