The sun has been shining for days (which makes sense in the Sunshine State).

I peaked at my work email, and even that couldn’t do anything to raise my blood pressure. Nosiree, Bob. I’m fucking California mellow. I’m ready to get a guitar and be a sensitive singer/songwriter I’m so in touch and in tune and feeling the good vibrations. I’m ready to get in a hot tub and really talk. You know, really talk, relate, understand someone as a person. Yep, I’m OK and you’re OK, too.

The thing about long distance relationships is you kind of never know. You could show up and suddenly it’s like, “Oh, right, I forgot to tell you, I’m not at all who you think I am and by the way, why are you here anyway?” Or it could just be fine.

The fact is, I worry, irrationally, neurotically, about all aspects of any relationship all the time. I misspeak, and I convince myself that even people in my family (who essentially have no choice) will avoid me and strike me from their lives. On any given day, despite all evidence to the contrary, there’s a teeny corner in my brain that’s waiting for the pink slip, the ass canning from which I can’t recover, leaving me homeless, helpless in the streets.

Now, you add a man type of of relationship into that neurotic vortex and there’s a potential blackhole of despair, failure and loneliness. (I think what is perhaps the worst of all of this dynamic is I am painfully aware of how fucking stupid, crazy, irrational it is. The gods have blessed and cursed me with an insane abundance of self-awareness, I fear.)

BUT, and it’s a big, fucking “but,” hanging out with M. I’m fine. I’m relaxed. I’m almost too comfortable. Together, we just go with the flow. Can’t find a restaurant where you thought there was one, find another one. It gets cold, put on a jacket. Someone cuts you off in traffic, curse and get angry, and then laugh at getting angry. No worries, just easy street.

Truth is, I worry about all this happiness.