I'm really having the time of my life right now. I can't believe it was a month ago I was sitting in a psych ward tying a sheet around my neck because all I could think about was how horribly rotten of a person I am, but I'm not a horrible person at all. I'm just a person. I wish my mental illness knew that. She's obsessed with the badness of me to the point I'd call it a form of narcissism. With as much as she thinks about me (us), you'd think I was the president of the U.S., although that title has lost its value with the last election. Now I'm not so sure I want to be compared to that baffoon.
I'm camping with my dog and myself, and I have to tell you, I'm *loving* it. I have everything set up perfectly. I have nice camping gear that's organized. My dog is an absolute sweet heart. My fire is amazing. The weather couldn't be any better. It's just cool enough that it feels good on my back with the fire up front. The bugs weren't even bad for no more than a few minutes. Note to self: buy skin so soft.
It's quiet with nothing but the crackle of the fire, grasshoppers chirping and the buzz of an airplane, with an occasional rustle from the one neighbor I sort of have, who cooked the yummiest smelling dinner ever. It smelled almost as good as my birthday dinner, which was the best food I've every had. Ever. Even the caviar was good, who knew, besides the 1%?
