When did I become such a lightweight? Two glasses of bourbon, and I feel three sheets to the wind. Okay, maybe it's just two sheets. But whatever.
I know being a grown-up is about sacrifice, but when did I decide I had to stoop so far? This might be the PMS talking (boys, it's hitting hard time this month: probably best to keep away until, say, Wednesday), but I've felt so dejected and hopeless about finding something or someone even in the general area of what I want (gods forbid I look for exactly what I want), I'm starting to wonder if it's even worth the effort.
Like I alluded to in my naval-gazing New Year's post, I'm going to start just letting things come my way this year — wait for doors to open instead of knocking on random ones hoping that they're the right one. But fuck, I really wish something would just fall into my lap right now, and push me. I need to be pushed. And not in a career way, o ye gods. You should know by now what I'm whinging about; I'm happy with most of my life, and thankful for it.
And wow, this is a completely rambling post. Perhaps it's a night for early bed. Thank you, Knob Creek.