Remember when this blog used to be about me? Like, what I'm doing, what I've done, what I'm going to do?
Yeah, me neither. But I think that's, technically, what I set out to do when I started this blog. Back before it was about books and movies and stuffs. I think I can still do that, though I'm not quite sure. Here goes, I guess.
It occurred to me, the other day, that I'm deliriously happy right now. Which is kind of strange, because I don't often feel all that happy. Sometimes I think I'm downright miserable. But I'm waking up every morning with a great big grin on my face, because I'm in love with my lovely little bedroom, and there's only about ten steps between me and my first cup of coffee. I love saying good morning to my parents and pouring a bowl of cereal and sweet-talking my precious kitty. I'm actually enjoying the whole eighteen-pages-a-day Bible reading thing; and as much as I complain, and as stir-crazy as it makes me sometimes, I really love how much I get to devote myself to my studies right now. And I feel like I've gotten over the hump, a bit, as far as frustration goes. I'm actually making headway in Spanish, and I feel like I'm understanding it a lot more than I used to. Ever since I switched from some obscure textbook to Khan Academy, online, Geometry has gotten a lot more tolerable. I conquered a really big giant by getting through A Tale of Two Cities in English, and it makes me feel ten feet tall that I actually enjoyed it. I like making a giant cup of Earl Grey to get me through the afternoon, I like popping my head out of my sunroom-turned-schoolroom to scavenge for something to eat and dragging it back to my workstation. I like school.
My Little Podunk County, as frustrating as it can be and as much of a pit of sinking sand as it feels like sometimes, is really, really, really gorgeous in Springtime.
I'm actually making headway in my writing. I feel like I'm perched right on the edge of actually getting better at it, of being able to write the way I want to.
Last Saturday night, I had the house to myself. I'm eighteen years old. I didn't have social plans on a Saturday night, I opted out to having dinner with a family at church with my parents and siblings. Instead, I stayed home, ate soup, listened to my audiobook for A Tale of Two Cities, and knitted. On a weekend night, I sat at home and knitted. It was one of those reevaluate-your-life moments. So I reevaluated, and I decided....I really don't have a problem with it.
And as terrifying as it feels to be eighteen, and to have to worry about the fact that I have to actually make decisions, that the rest of my life isn't going to plan itself or be planned for me, that there are things called money and banks and *gasp* insurance, and I'm eventually going to have to worry about for myself, as hard as I try to feel scared, instead I keep on getting . . . excited. I can't help but feel like there's this adventure ahead for me, and I get to pick it. I can do whatever I decide I want to do. I mean, I'm going to be wise about it, and it's still completely infuriating that no matter how many times I ask for a sign, God isn't giving me one. But I'm still ... really, really excited.
There! Hahaha! I have succeeded. Personal post.
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