After breakfast, I meandered over to the office where I worked six hours designing; I made $100.00. Got compliments from my boss.
During my lunch hour, I planned a trip to Portugal with my brother. Dad said, "Yes."
I then came home to see I had received a new book two days ahead of schedule. ("Portrait of an Addict as a Young Man," by Bill Clegg.)
I washed down a beer and drove to Central Market; saw an old friend of mine who has a crush on me. (Tonight, my friends were having a vegetarian barbeque by the pool, so I picked up my favorite salsa and a pack of Blue Moon beer.)
I drank more, ate decent tofu kebabs, and we talked about relationships and the rapping style of Nikki Minaj.
At ten, I left for home to watch my favorite Bravo show and finish reading Bridges of Madison County.
Two years ago, I would call this a very full and satisfying day. The perfect summer evening, spent with friends and flies and frothy sweet alcohol. Money in the pocket, a trip quickly approaching, and a pretty decent tan.
I'm still "happy." Yet, right now, I am frightfully discontented with my life.
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