Gosh.

I didn't mean to sound like such a downer the other day. And I totally meant that thing about not keeping the blog up as a tiny little footnote of a commentary about things. I didn't even think that anyone would read that far down the post, I was just thinking is all. And I wouldn't ever quit writing altogether. I write constantly. Always have, for at least a quarter century now. I would just write somewhere else. Somewhere anonymously so I can dump out the corners of my brain without anyone I actually know reading it, or maybe work to publish something, or maybe keep an old fashioned pen and ink journal tucked between my mattress and my boxspring.

And I was surprised to read that some of you thought I was in a pits mood when I wrote that too. It couldn't be further from the truth. I'm happier than I've been since, well, since ever. I'm healthy. Too healthy. So healthy I can't fit in any of my pants healthy. I only get fat when I'm happy. I like my life. Dare I say love? I love my life? Sure. I don't think it gets much better than this. My life is actually easy and enjoyable and comfortable. For now.

I figure that barring anything tragic and unexpected, there is a good chance that I have a year where everything can kind of just hover where it's at, and then Jake will turn us upside down and go to school and I will find something there to tear my brain apart. But today things are good and breezy and wonderful and I think that this is why they say that things get better with age.

All I meant by that last post is that I'm done trying to be who I was, and I'm ready to start being who I am. That's like, major therapeutic progress, people. Major. You should be proud of me rather than concerned for me.

Then again, every time I have a stretch of clarity and purpose, I am afraid that I have totally effing lost it. Think of the craziest person you know. Yeah. They think they have it all figured out.

But they are happy.

Nuts, but happy.

Maybe that's okay.