The Mets are on high alert for the swine flu. I think the news should stop making it sound like the black plague and obsess over another new but very treatable disease.
Tonight I just want to write. I am more or less upset with my love life, since it is standard for me to have contradicting entries on the topic, and I have empty hershey kiss wrappers and dorito bags to prove it. For the past couple of weeks, I've been feeling like my life and the way I live it is insufficient. I though about self-help books and even looked a few up on the internet. I've bought one that was published in 96, Kitchen Table Wisdom, and so far, it has had a lot to do with illness which for a split second I thought might not be relevant to my life. But since I'm blessed with good health, aside for extra flesh around my middle, how can I not read this story and be thankful? The point of the book is to heal by reading stories of those who have truly suffered, who have felt lost and unsure of their purpose in life. I'm not far into it but I'm already determined to really absorb what's been writtne and let the words sink in to help me appreciate all that is me. I'm so preoccupied with boys and why I can't seem to find something long lasting but why? The more I obsess about it does not mean the situation will get better. It is what it is and I can either make the best of it or pout (or in this case, complain via blog). I just wish this fleeting thought is something I could actually commit to. I want my emotions to be balanced, not erratic. I want to be happy, in every aspect of my life. I can't seem to get there and it's eating away at me. Am I depressed? I think it just goes back to my counselor saying I have the curse of meaning. Sigh.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment