All of my internet friends are gone for the long weekend already. It's just you and me, dland. And I am bored as snot, so settle back.
Want to hear about my plans for this evening? I'm going to spend tonight cuddling with myself (and maybe my kitty, if she is in the mood) while watching a movie and consuming vast amounts of vitamins and echinacea, before finally knocking myself out with Nyquil at around 9. Doesn't that sounds sexxxy? Actually, I'm really looking forward to it, although between you and me, I kind of wish someone were coming over with chicken soup and some kind of disgusting tea that his grandmother used to make that's guaranteed to put hair on your chest. And it wouldn't hurt if he had mad back-rubbing skills. I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I'm just saying. That would be nice.
Because I do really like being single. Boyfriends are a lot of work. I think I'm starting to get to that place where the very idea of having a boyfriend seems really foreign and weird. I can't believe I ever managed it at all. Every date I go on kind of confirms this for me, although the people I've gone on dates with lately have been very nice and have had nothing wrong with them.
You know, last night I ran across some of my journals from when I was 20, journals I hadn't seen in at least five years. Man, I was completely crazy when I was 20. I was really dramatic, and I was boy crazy in a much dumber way than I'm boy crazy now--I guess because for the last few years at least, my boy craziness has been very generalized and kind of a joke between me and myself, whereas back then, it was directed and in deadly earnest. It was kind of heartening to look back over those journals and see what a dingbat I was, because even though I'm a dingbat now, I really have come a long way. Sometimes I get discouraged and feel like I've hardly made any progress on becoming the person that I want to be, but believe me, I have. I'm not great and I still fuck up a lot, but the last 7 years have not been a total waste, at least in terms of spiritual growth.
Not to be too hard on my 20-year-old self, though. She was all right. And it wasn't her fault that her sort of-ex-boyfriend moved into the apartment that looked directly down onto hers. That was just bad luck.
I have to go finish an essay for another scholarship I'm applying for. Gross.
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