i'll be 27 in two days.

you'd think i'd be a little more responsible with this blogging thing. truth is, too much shit hit the proverbial fan and i couldn't figure out how to translate it into proper words. i basically just sat around for two months making grunting noises and eating pastries.
i think i'm back to normal. as much as i can be, anyway. i'm starting to feel witty and funny again and somewhat attractive to the opposite sex. i still hate my wardrobe. i hate my bank account more for not affording me the ability to improve upon the wardrobe that i hate. i'm still too afraid to let myself be alone, meaning i'm still stuck in a dead-end relationship with an absolute mess who is addicted to opiates and doesn't love me for who i really am. i still don't feel like i've done enough dancing to make up for the three months i spent hiding indoors. i'm still trying to figure out how to get home after work and get things done as opposed to falling asleep on the couch at 6pm.
i've spent the past two weekends with eric. yes, i'm naming names. i was feeling unloved and under-appreciated so i went back to the one with the fear of commitment except when it comes to blondes and i drank champagne with him and ate pizza and he told me that he loved me over and over again. we danced around in our underwear and slept in the afternoons and we told everyone that we were getting married someday and i left smiling.
finally, i'm starting to feel like myself again.
i know eric will spend this week bedding a few different girls; most of them familiar. and i'll go back to my side of the bed in the house with the dog and my toothbrush and the sink full of dishes and my wardrobe that i hate in bags all over the floor. but at least, for my birthday, i'll feel beautiful and appreciated and somewhat more like the person i used to be before unhappiness set in.
i'll probably spend next weekend with him, too.