It's almost two months since my three-month-long relationship broke up. It's been about a month since I last spoke to my ex-boyfriend. It's been a week since I last hooked up with someone, though, really, that was nothing.
I've been attending my writing class, working at the bookstore, worrying about money, working on a short story and trying to keep busy around the city. I'm trying to keep my mood up. Things have been lively. (I'm actually still off my crazy pills, trying to maintain an edge while not becoming too annoying.)
I've been reading a little. I've been trying to write paragraphs that are longer than one sentence. I've been hanging out with some friends. I've spent some time with family.
The apartment's messy again. I'll get around to cleaning it one of these days. (Maybe someone should come check on me. I'll clean it if I have visitors.)
Things are good, I guess. Yeah, things are good.
I'm not babysitting some arrested-development guy with Roberto Benigni's attention span and energy level a lot of the time. I'm not sick over the love that was lost. I try, at those moments of weakness, to remind myself that the ex could really get on my nerves. There were times when we were terrible together.
The apartment needed to be messy for me to see that, I guess. I suppose that's one way to justify it. I could claim that the dishes in my sink are a sign of progress.
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