I think my weekend couldn’t really have been duller if I spent it in a coma. Actually, the benefit of a coma would be rest. I’m still going to sleep pretty erratically, aided and abetted by my compulsion to make something out of this this page. On top of my own obsessive compulsive behavior, daylight savings makes me completely unaware of what time it is actually (down around September I will have worked it out). All in all, if you see me with a set of luggage under the eyeballs, it ain’t that 40 has caught up with me, it’s insomnia.

The birthday party yesterday wasn’t as…can’t think of a word…dire…wince producing…personal angst ridden…as I had feared. It was no rockin’, tits in the breeze, Mardi Gras mosh pit either, but what are you going to do?

To be fair, I love the people who I knew at the party. They were the social heart and core of my circle summers during college. Inevitably, our lives have grown in different directions, which is cool and as it should be. I need to relax and enjoy the upside of catching up with folks from the past.

Maybe all of my anxiety over a household of kids is based only on two things:
(1) the sheer decibel level. Jesus Christ when there’s that many children in one place it hurts and (2) going that close to where I grew up and visiting the child-filled, nuclear family model highlights all of the shit of which I have consciously chosen not to take part, even though it was my apparent birthright.

I don’t know, somehow in certain situations, the choice of being single and childless seems less valid or something, as though I am failing to live correctly. It’s the “When are you getting married?” implied agenda, I guess, where “never” seems to be the wrong answer. Of course, my lack of comfort is probably more of an internal struggle. Overall, I tend to be happy with my choices, as I am sure suburbanites are with theirs.

In the end, no one likely really gives a shit what I do.