I woke up this morning with my cat next to me and the sun shining through my curtains. On a normal day I'd slam the Snooze button and bury my head under my pillow, but today is no normal day. This is the first day of what I'd like to call the rest of my life because for once, everything I've always wanted is starting to come to me. Everything is falling into place.

I got the classes I want and will be giving the finger to the corporate world tomorrow or on Monday.
I have a gig on Saturday and my friends will be watching.
I may be in a permanent band again very soon.

It's not going to be easy, I know. To be honest, I feel slightly sad about quitting my job because I've grown rather attached to my cubicle and my friends at work. Though my first few weeks in the office were marked with severe episodes of depression, I'd gotten quite used to being a writer drone and was slowly starting to think that I wouldn't mind staying in the company for maybe a year or two, just because I'm already there. But I've never been one to stay in my comfort zone because it's convenient and safe. Besides, a job is just a means to earn money. I refuse to let that take over my life and get in the way of what I really want to do.

I still have some cash, but I'm currently trying to find myself more freelance writing jobs (so if you guys know anyone who needs home-based writers, let me know?). It might be a good idea to cut back on the going out too--which will kind of suck because I have all this free time now. But I don't care. I'm happy. I'm following my dreams and doing what I want--which, I think, is more than a lot of people can say. I'm lucky that my parents are incredibly supportive of my decisions. And of course, I'm damn lucky to have amazing friends who have always been there to supply me with beer, tissues, and good times.

I don't know what kind of career I'll end up having once I'm done with grad school (do I get into PR? give an academic career a shot? live in a house in the mountains and write?), or if this band thing will get me anywhere, or if choosing an unpredictable life of freelance work turns out to be even more difficult than I imagined.

I don't care. I'm happy.

I made it to UP's Creative Writing MA program. I'M GOING BACK TO SCHOOL! To take up an impractical major! And live in a box after! And maybe get around to writing something worth publishing!

HUZZAH!

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. :)