Leaving my livestock alone
So in a pretty successful attempt to stave off anything that resembled work this morning, I stumbled upon my LiveJournal, which hasn't been updated in, oh, about 4 years. In that amount of time, I've come to realize that 24-year-olds have, to put it mildly, shit for brains. All the stuff I obsessed over, all the imaginary merit contests I was competing against myself to win, all the so-very-earnest requests for support and encouragement in the simplest endeavors. Frankly, I'd just like to travel back in time a few years and give myself a hug. Tell myself that the world wasn't going to end if I didn't become an editor at Knopf, in the shiniest, most magnificent building in all of New York City. And you know what? That didn't happen. And the world's still turning, as far as I can figure. I'm one time zone west and several states south of the place that was supposed to my own personal end-all and be-all, and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. All I know is that I still don't know anything. But somehow, I'm pretty close to being all right with that. What good would a life of absolute certainities be, anyway?