It really is a good morning
I am deliciously happy right now for reasons that aren't particularly clear to me, and it's scaring me a little. Okay, so maybe that statement isn't very accurate. I'm fairly certain that this happiness thing isn't just some bipolar mood swing (a disorder I don't have, by the way. Though someone suggested it once. I didn't know if that was meant to be an offhand comment or an insult). It isn't an effect of the antidepressants either (which I forgot to take last night). I am, for once, genuinely happy with myself and where I am right now. Yes, Lauren is happy with her life and a porn writing job in an office mostly full of loser guys who sit by the pool and heckle at the girls like street children on a rugby high.

I think the true test of my happiness happened yesterday during a YM conversation with a high school friend. Well the fact that I'm talking to the (decent) people from my high school is already interesting enough. I don't know what made me decide to stop being bitter about it, give them another chance, and restart our friendship (for the lack of a better term) with a clean slate. Anyway, so this high school friend of mine was telling me about another mutual friend who is now living the kind of life I thought I'd be living when I turn 21--apartment in Manhattan, wild bartending job in the evening, a hot British boyfriend who I'd visit in his Manchester flat every so often. When I heard about that, I braced myself for the angst that was sure to follow. I have this bad tendency to compare myself to my peers and fall into depressive trap when it hits me that they're doing something I'm not. Instead of self-pity and existential panic, however, I actually felt genuinely happy for her. I honestly can't imagine myself being a bartender in New York. I bet none of the drinks I make would ever reach the customers. Besides, European boys are too weird.

There was a rather cute moment that happened between me and my parents before my dad brought me to work. I went crashing into the kitchen with my Torn-Beyond-Recognition jeans and my dad goes, "What happened to your pants?" I replied with a shrug and said I tore them myself with a pair of scissors. Before my dad could reply, my mom quips, "What are you asking her that for? You wore ripped-up jeans yourself when you were her age. She really is your daughter." My dad laughs and calls my mother a punk, his term of endearment for her.

Good morning, everyone. :)