It's disconcerting, at times, to see how perfect peoples' lives are on the Web. No one's life is that good. Except maybe mine. Mine is good.

I'm contradicting myself, aren't I? I mean, did you read my post from yesterday? It sounded pretty, uh, awful. But sadness is fodder for writing. Fodder. Funny word. For less of a cattle-driven feel, let me say sadness is fuel for writing. Every strong emotion is. But happiness doesn't produce, for me, writing of substance. I cannot evoke — or is it release? — positive emotion like I can negative. Perhaps this says something about me. Perhaps not. It's just how it is.

So the point is, I know I sound manic in my posts — ridiculously depressed or ridiculously funny (I'm ridiculously funny at times, admit it) — but the truth is, things are about midway between those two points. Average.

Imagine that, my life is average. And it's good.

(This post is for all those who are concerned about my mental state. Mostly my mom.)

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