This picture pretty much sums up my evening:
Me and you and a bottle makes three tonight.
... Well, three if you count my dog as the "you" part. Which I totally do.
I suppose I should be watching the Tiger's game, but as much as I love that my town's team is in the World Series, baseball just can not hold my attention. Now basketball; there's a game I can sink my teeth into. And don't even get me started on all those tall, sweaty men running up and down the court. That's much more my kind of sport. But I digress.
My boyfriend moved out a few weeks ago and I feel like I'm kind of drifting right now. Everything feels different, yet the same. I feel like I'm stuck in a rut, yet totally lost, all at the same time.
Part of me wants a family and a home, warm with children and the smells of good food and full of love. A safe haven. A place to grow old.
But part of me feels like I haven't lived enough yet. Part of me wants to see the world - to just load my car and leave. Head west. Just drive until I find whatever it is I'm looking for. Take lots of pictures and eat in lots of little diners, meeting interesting people. To just experience life in a raw, real way.
I look around my house - a house that I bought myself, and that I painted and decorated, and that I love - and I feel trapped. Claustrophobic. I suddenly feel like I did it all backwards. Like I was so desperate for some kind of a place to feel like a home - like the home I never had but always wanted - that at 23 I set down roots. As deep as I possibly could.
And now I'm waking up to realize that I never really had a chance to experience anything else but this.
A part of me wants to get in my car tomorrow and spend 2 months just driving across America, soaking it all up. Or buy a plane ticket to Europe and hike around, spending every last dime I have on hostels and bottles of good Italian wine.
Why does it feel like everything great is just something I read in a book. I'm sick of just reading about it. I want to live it. I want to experience it.