Something I wrote yesterday.

I am deliciously happy right now for reasons that aren’t particularly clear, 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 so happy with her life that she can’t bring herself to get angry at the loser guys who heckle at her and her female friends like street children on a rugby high (not rugby the game but rugby the chemical, a popular hallucinogen among street rats here). Nope, not this morning.

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’d fly me to 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 guys are beyond 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. :)

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