I do what I want.

Can you believe I FINALLY booked my trip to California? Because I effing can’t!

I feel like I’ve done a lot of growing up in recent weeks/months and in honour of my 26th birthday [4 days and counting, friends], I decided the best birthday present I could ever give myself was to force myself to get a little uncomfortable and fly across the continent to see my HSB (high school bestie).

I’ve lead a pretty “safe” life; I mean, obviously besides being hit by moving vehicles, stalked by a guy in high school, had someone offer to murder me, you know… those don’t really count because those weren’t technically my decisions. I mean, yes, I chose to cross the street one day when the cross walk displayed the “walk” symbol but I didn’t choose to end up getting hit, falling back to the curb and having the police accuse me of not seeing the driver’s skin colour correctly. 

Totally lost sight of the point there for a sec.

I’ve spoken my mind when I knew I shouldn’t, I’ve lied, made stupid decisions and played it fast and loose with a mickey of vodka and a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol when I wasn’t getting enough attention from my parents. But most of the choices I’ve made are what I would consider safe. 

No arrests, no broken bones, no tattoos on the front of my neck. I’m a bologna-and-ketchup-sandwiches-and-boxed fish-sticks baby. I don’t do dare devil. I just don’t know how to.

I’m not saying I haven’t lived. I’ve lived. I’ve really made the most of never having left this continent. 

Plus, I’ve also got the whole love thing under my belt. So I really shouldn’t complain about being a Ms. Safety Pants. I could be worse things. Like completely psychotic. Or brunette.

I just get down on myself sometimes when I see people with their shit completely together. I’ve said it before [even though I totally stole it from this article], it really is easier to deal with when things are going to shit. It’s easier to feel good about your own life - about my life - when I see other people jumping from job to job, having relationship problems or just being generally miserable. 

I didn’t say I was proud of myself.

I just fear that my shit may be as together as it’s ever going to be and frankly, that’s a bit concerning.

I remember to give the kittens their medicine, I mostly remember what groceries I went to the store for. I don’t forget people’s birthdays or important events. I pay my rent on time and have never lost or dropped my cell phone in the toilet or a glass of wine. I’m responsible. I’m a good friend. It just literally scares the hell out of me that every day is some new kind of unpredictable. I hate circumstances I can’t control. 

I apologize for being the most boring human being alive. I feel like I should go bungee jumping or delete my Facebook account or something. Get a little spicy. 

Although I occasionally go through phases where I remove a whack of friends from Facebook. So does that make me halfway to spicy?

For years now, I’ve had this rule where if, on someone’s birthday I don’t feel the urge to make the biggest deal about their birthday [read: “OMG HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABES! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE ___ YEARS OLD! GRANDMAAA! HAHA LOVE YOU”], I’ll just delete them altogether. 

I mean, come on, Facebook is not real life. I’m days away from my 26th birthday; sometimes it’s time to grow up. Sometimes people just grow apart from each other, sometimes you don’t want to give someone who said dick-all to you in high school the option to creep photos of your new kittens and sometimes, you’d rather pretend some of the people you mistakenly let into your life just don’t exist anymore. 

Annnnd other times you just can’t bear to see that yet another one of your ex-boyfriends found “the one” and got engaged to the girl he dated immediately after you broke up. Or in most of my cases, the girl he was sleeping with while he was still dating me.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I feel anything for these people. Trust me, I don’t. They call it a break-up for a reason and I’m more than happy to be rid of all of my ex-whatever-they-weres.. it’s just that feeling like a practice girlfriend for the rest of their lives is riiiiight up there with the worst feelings in the world.

It’s up there with feeling like no matter how hard you try, you’re just never going to figure “it” out. Whatever the hell IT is. 

California, 23 days and you’re my bitch. I’m starting to get excited. 

XXOO