So, Here it is.

My signed confession. My red handed apprehension. My size seven footprint at the crime scene.

I am actually starting to enjoy my job, I enjoy going to work in the morning. I enjoy eating my lunch, and walking my meager walks. I enjoy that thrill of when four thirty hits, and it’s almost time to go home. I love little things, like the library calling to let me know my holds are in. I like cooking silly foods, and doing bare necessity laundry, and showering after a long busy, hectic day. I like little things, like calls from friends, and texts from loved ones, and a long hug after a frustrating moment.

Is this me accepting the fact that an adult life is filled with the mundane, and hardship? That yes, indeed, it is possible to find satisfaction within a repetitive and controlled routine?

All I need these days to be living the dream is a place of my own, so I can live my boring yet somehow fulfilling life as a anti-socialite.

That’s all I want.
Minimal school, no more family, and just…