It feels like I’m faking it. All this adult stuff. 

Paying bills, going to work everyday, buying groceries, and raising this puppy. Having this grown person relationship with this man that I love. 

It feels like it is all happening by accident. It feels like I am waiting for it to fall out from under me. It feels detached and a little like someone else’s life.

But.

The bills are paid. The refrigerator is full. Lola is fed and walked every day. I am going to work everyday, to a job that I like, and at which I do a pretty damn good job, if I do say so myself. This man and I are growing together, and loving each other, and it is working. 

It’s not an accident that I ended up here. I made all this for myself. I chased down this job. I poured over lists of apartments and hunted down the dream apartment. I made this happen. I buy that pup’s food, and take her for walks, and pay for her (sometimes very expensive surgerys and) doctor’s visits. I choose this love on a daily basis. I pick my words. I kiss his face with intention and purpose. 

I want this to feel like less of an accident. I want to feel like I made this, like I am responsible for myself, like I can make my own happiness ( and have ). 

battling the urge to paint every room in the apartment Ultra White.

I have so many opinions about style and decor that I am having trouble choosing one option for each room.

I am concerned about having a schizophrenic apartment. I want fluidity and calmness.

I am concerned that ‘vintage-inspired, rustic, clean, simple, shabby chic’ isn’t a real thing.

I need to take all my thoughts and make them into something real and lovely.