I never seem to write when I'm happy.
I guess that's just as well. I mean, if I did, how boring? It'd be like this throughout my whole journal: I'm in love with Sean Watkins! Man, you kick serious bluegrass-ass! But I digress.
My life is totally bogus right now. Why is it that I realize what I want in life only after it becomes impossible.... And through Stephen, somehow. This evening, when I got so mad at him- and believe me, I still am - I ran out of the house and started power walking. And it FELT SO GOOD. But this morning, my mum diagnosed me with achilles tendonitis. I pulled a muscle in my ankle, and chances are, for the rest of my life, it'll give me painful, gory-feeling hell.
I want to be a powerwalker and walk across the United States. DUH. Alas... nope! No can do! At least for now, particularly since mum vehenemently threw away my old tennis shoes [bad shoe support causes tendonitis], saying "That's what happens to things that hurt my baby!"
Anyways, getting pissed also gave me a second walk. I had passed through the neighborhood once before. I had been eying beat-up wicker chair. I wanted it. I had the thought, "Imagine that a life can be utterly changed by a wicker chair." I watched it depart from the corner of my eye as my strides continue; within me, I fear what people think of me, and I couldn't bring myself to face the chair. The second time, I was "WHAT THE HELL, I'M TAKING THE BLOODY CHAIR." And I did, the frame roughly balanced on my hip as I strode home, proud of my assertiveness.
What else. We're getting a puppy in less than half a month, a border collie. I'm excited, except I really feel we're getting the wrong one! When we visited, my family decided a puppy with a white stripe across his rear end, but I was in love with a white-headed one, whom I would have named Bobbie McGee, for some wack reason. The white stripped one can still be Bobbie, but it'll be after Bob Dylan, my absolute FAVORITE new find. He kicks arse, too.
I'm so random. I'm just typing out thoughts.