Sunday night has rolled around again. I'm surfing the web for pictures of brisket (because that's what I do on a Sunday night).
I don't know if this is just a case of the Sunday blues. Holly Golightly might say that it's a fierce case of the mean reds.
Anyway, I know that these types of feelings pass quickly. I fall into small, bratty funks. I reason my way out of them and I'm fine again. It's just a mix of confusion and ennui, sprinkled with the flu, a dash of holiday glum, the monotony of studying, and the sense that I'm bogged down, in limbo again.
It all really boils down to one thought: I hate feeling like I'm missing out. My sister is flying to Ethiopia tonight. Stephanie will be traveling in Japan within a few days. Jen D just got married and is living in Thailand. Emily gave birth to a daughter. Ky is starting a new job tomorrow. I want to gather up all of their experiences but leave behind their pain, hard work, and sacrifice.
I'm a positive person, I try hard, and I always make the most of things. I'm (mostly) pleasant and happy in public. Still, once in awhile, especially late at night, I slip up and look back and feel enraged and bitter. I'll wonder if that part of me really gave up.
Anyway, I'm sorry to write in ambiguities, especially because I vowed not to commit this particular offense in my blog and run the risk of all (four? five?) of my lovely readers becoming confused (and frightened of me). I'm aware of how selfish and childish and just plain nuts that this entry has become, but I mean this to be a reminder to myself. I'm going to leave it up here so that tomorrow and the day after and the month after and the year after, I can look back and laugh at myself for being so silly. I already know I will.