I get jealous reading and hearing of people who are living dramatic exciting lives in some exotic or fashionable sense. I read and listen, then implode to fret about my own little mundane existance. How very shallow and infantile of me. But then I realise that this isn't the case anymore, it's as if I had woken up on some dreary day and thought to myself "Bah! F*** this" and then lept out of bed to seize life by the horns and then wrestled to bring the both of us to higer heights.

The prize was empowerment. The gift of choosing what you do, for what purpose and how. The heightened responsibility and blossoming maturity, all taught me that one's life with all its excitment and drama really only reflects all the excitment and drama within a person herself to start with. I'm glad to be me.

I think I'm up and raring to go.

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I think that if I had told you then that you had made me cry,
We wouldn't be so fucked.
I'm sorry.