Being Happy Means I Have Nothing To Write
Uh…I’m kinda boring
This isn’t a fancy article for a publication. This won’t be proofread. There are loads of typos. It’s just a raw dump of what’s been in my brain for sanity’s sake. Maybe the content will eventually fuel a formal submission, but for now…this isn’t it.
Dear Diary…
I have a handful of Medium stories halfway written. It’s harder to write these days since I only prattle and babble at night. Maybe my articles are fueled by a lack of sleep. When I have my kids, I’m so exhausted after putting them to bed that I can barely squeeze in a workout.
Lately, when I don’t have my kids, I’m with Jeremy.
Wait, I wrote that wrong.
I’m with Jeremy. That’s better.
This is the first time I haven’t itched to break up with someone. I haven’t found any red flags, other than the acrimonious relationship with his ex-wife. She’s getting married so I don’t consider her a threat.
Dude makes me happy. Even when something dumb happens with my ex-husband, I’m not seething for days or sobbing on the couch.
I lack the typical angst I feel when something goes wrong. You know, my typical life. Without ongoing angst, I don’t feel the urge to write.
Deep down, I’m waiting for things to go awry with Jeremy. I’ve decided to wait until after Halloween for the DTR (Define the Relationship) chat. Until then, my brain assumes this is a delicate situation.
Don’t charge the deer in the forest. Move slowly or else you’ll spook it.
And so…here we are. Me barely writing, bored as fuck at work, and head over heels for a fantabulous man that I’m aching to be my boyfriend.




