Milton wrote an elegy, Lycidas, after his most ardent period, six years in the making in pursuit of immortality. What he grappled with, well I have an idea. I've decided, in honor of a man still living, when someone asks why I am alone, I will simply reply, "because I am working."
Speaking of work. I'm getting ready for what was supposed to be drinks with friends in celebration of the fall and my birthday. The latter being a mere ploy to get my friends in one place - so I could hold on. After sending the email, I realized I wasn't that person anymore. Someone who celebrates. It made me sad for a second, though I do appreciate this more quiet me. It's not that I can't be happy, but I'm not sure about what I "really, really, really want." And if you'll allow me to be a girl for a moment, getting ready sucks. It's arduous. Do I become Cheetah Rivera tonight? Flash my maryjanes? Break out the red lipstick?
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