For about a week, this picture was the perfect encapsulation of the year I’d had and how excited I was for the year to come. Sure, I had been fresh off of dealing with yet another fuckboy du jour in an ongoing seven year conquest for ~*love*~, but when I look at this picture, it brings a rush of joy. I think about how I’d recently gone to Italy with one of my best friends – how much fun I’d had on a weekend trip to DC with my girlfriends – how I’d worked so hard on my physical fitness – how I was crushing it at work – and how gleefully happy I was in that moment, where the alcohol on an empty stomach seduced my usual social anxiety and I ruminated on how lucky I was for a bulk of my favorite people on this planet to call my friends to take time out of their day to celebrate me and ply me with all variations of cinnamon roll sweet treats and alcoholic lavender lemonades.
I think this day, despite a brief coma in my apartment bathroom followed by devouring one of the aforementioned sweet treats over its receptacle in the kitchen like a pantsless goblin, will always live in my memory as one of the best.
What a difference a week makes, I guess.
griefchronicle 