That’s the beauty of self-employment. It starts when you get there.
Things? They’re looking up. Sunny out now (as if the weather matters in the scheme of things, but the window-dressing’s nice) and I’m about to zip across town to the Lonely Planet-dubbed “Counter-culture Capital of Canada” for the afternoon. Tonight entails a bike ride. The Guy’s working, and I could frankly stand to blow off some steam on my own. As wonderful as it is to know the support is there when I need it, there’s a certain minimum-use requirement on self-sustenance and solo-powered coping skills. Some things you need to be able to get through on your own, especially when they’re problems or issues that no one can help with.
The Mom Thing is standard-issue seasonal grief, but my larger concerns have to do with writing and the future thereof. Guess who can solve those problems? Me, only me. And that’s just fine. The Guy’ll be there another time, and my friends have better things to worry about than me spouting off about verbs and the world at large.
Cycling, I find, seems to be helping my sex-drive a little, I might add. Maybe it’s just the fitness thing as a whole, but all I know is it’s feeling better and I’m a little more interested. Maybe it has to do with not having to worry about having a boyfriend who’s injured. I think that when your lover’s not doing their best, the instinct is to hold back on things a little, “for their sake.” Is that wise? You know, probably not. It might lead to further issues if it hurts their pride. I’m glad nothing of the sort has happened for us thus far, but it’s really nice to see myself getting back to, urm, my roots, for lack of a better term.
Ah, the weekend. Nothing like having the odds of getting laid in a higher percentile, huh?
I may have some good news to share with y’all early next week, something that’ll help you get to know me a little better, but I’m not in the mood to jinx myself and do any early announcements… suffice to say I’m the kinda kid that still opens Christmas presents early, so it’s damned well killing me not to share.
Maybe chocolate will help; until sex becomes a fun distraction, that is.