Tails from the Bark Side

When I was 14, if you'd have asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I'd have probably said something like, 'Something I can just get on with and forget about when I'm at home and doing more fun things.' That is, if you had managed to get me to think about my life beyond that day, and past getting out of school and getting involved in a book, album or an episode of The X Files. Which would have been clever of you. And so it goes, that after years of hard work and dragging myself through shite (to be frank), I am finally there. I'm living my dream life. I have ADVENTURES. WITH DOGS. I pootle around the streets and potter around people's houses and my brain gets to do its daydreamy, thinky thing with nobody interfering or demanding anything of me. I (finally) earn good money doing all this pootling and pottering, and I can live very comfortably, fridgehouse issues aside. I have so much free time and can have more whenever I like; I can ask people if they'd mind swapping days because I want to swan off into London or nip to Germany. I can fit in lots of ballet. I'll be able to fit in gigs when we has them. The uni course is challenging me just enough. I'm the right amount of busy; not bored, not stressed. Perfect life. I am happy.

So why doesn't my brain realise I'm happy?

My favourite birthday was probably my 18th (awesome party) and something I regret... Hmmm. Two things: All those years spent trying to be something I'm not, and leaving Live8 before Pink Floyd. Palm, face, have you met?

( moar meame lawl )