Last week was just one of those weeks where it wasn't so much that everything went wrong, just that nothing went quite right.
And then I came home. I was not homesick before, but oh man. I am now. I'm still here and I'm already homesick. I just want to stay. I want to have fall. I don't want to go back to the nasty old city. There's too much to do here, too much living that I'm missing out on.
There's too much to do in general. How is it that there's never, ever, enough time?
I've finally had to accept that all of the things I've been thinking "oh, they'll get better soon," aren't going to. It's just not gonna happen for me.
But whatever. This isn't me, this isn't what I do. Melancholy and self-pity are not becoming. I'm gonna go work on some happy thoughts for next time I write.