Euphoric Even Only for a Day

Sometimes when I sit and think about my perfect life, it looks something like, wake up, fed the dogs, have breakfast, get the kid up for school, drop him off, go to the gym,  run a few errands, be home by ten and sit down and write until 3 or 4, pick the kid up from school, clean up a little, make dinner, maybe take the dogs on a walk, read a little or watch a little television, spend some time with the man I love, and then curl up on his chest to go to sleep content with my day.

I actually did all of that yesterday and by the end of the day, I was feeling euphoric. Although, in my little daydream, I’m actually making money from the writing I am doing, but all things in time, right? Baby steps. I’m writing. I’m in my happy place. As of right now, my bills are paid. I have faith that next month things will work out too, but I really feel like the most important thing is that I am happy. I am writing. I feel creative and like I have a purpose. I actually feel like I want to call that dickhead and thank him for firing me every month because, if not for him, I may still be sitting in his office trying to help him get his life together instead of working on getting my own life together.

I swear I’ve never felt so free, but then again, maybe this is just that calm before the storm. The euphoria before realizing that I don’t have a fucking job and I still have kids and bills and dogs and responsibilities. But, I’m not going to worry about that today. I’m not going to be the rain on my parade. Not just yet anyway.

Today, I am going to be a ray of effing sunshine. I’m going to be that positive person that the whole world looks at and says, “why the fuck is she so happy?” I think I’ve been that person a lot anyway. My best friend said once, “If you can be happy and your life is falling apart, then there’s no reason why I can’t be happy.” Or something like that. It probably would have offended anyone else if she or anyone said that to someone, but I took it as a compliment, because she was right. I do, most of the time, have a knack for being perpetually happy even when I really should be borderline suicidal or at least with a small drinking problem. I guess optimism is a gift, like knowing how to sing or paint without ever being taught. So I guess I’m just going to take my gift of optimism, pair it with my gift of writing (that I’m trying to convince myself that I have) and just get on with my life with no regard for what anyone else thinks I should be doing with it. So for today, there’s that!

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