Take a quick trip back through my posts and you'll come to the point where I truly started living my life. You know, when I finally figured out how to live my life and have a good time and not be a whiny, clingy bitch because I wasn't getting my way?
Yeah. Then.
Well, I really only got to that point because I had been dumped by the only thing that was giving my life meaning at the time. Thing? He wasn't a vibrator. He was a person. I swear.
Anyway, I will get to the point of this damn thing.
During this time I really realized I wasn't living my life for me. This is natural. It's a part of relationships. You spend all your time with one person. You cherish that time. But sometimes you fight and you just want to get away from that person for a little bit to recharge. Very natural. Unless I'm misunderstanding my own life, in which case, ignore this post altogether and find yourself a wicked Buzzfeed quiz that will determine how many puppies you should have based on how many bites it takes you to get through an entire plate of french fries.
Anyway (again), I've been realizing lately that I haven't been living for me again. So an underlying goal of mine for the year 2017 (the year of the apocalypse - better late than pregnant!) was to go back to living for me a little bit. To see my friends - most of whom I haven't seen in at least a year. To get back into improv - which I hadn't done (until recently) in almost three years. To create more - which I have been sneakily doing, but it's going to be more of a thing now. Thing. Like a vibrator. To find a job that I actually like and to be working for myself by year's end.
I need to do more things for me. To plan for me. To live for me.
Because if I don't, who will? Nobody. Because my life is a sad, sad pile of garbage lit only halfway on fire because it couldn't commit to burning entirely.
Okay, that's a bit of exaggeration.
I never know how to end these thi--
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