Though
it’s easy to scoff at the horribly cliché title of this blog post, I’m hoping
that if my life were in book form, the next few months would prove to be the ultimate
page-turner. As a literature fiend, a truly sickening book metaphor seems to be
the easiest way to shout out to the world that I’m moving to Australia. Cue the
dramatic ‘duh, duh, duhhhhh’.
A
few months ago, I wrote a blog post that I chose not to publish. The basic tone
of such post was I'm soo bored I hate my
life woe is meeeee and nobody’s got time to listen to a measly excuse of a
blogger waffling on about her sorrows when our lives are often hard enough to
manage on their own. I was down in the dumps, unsatisfied, a grumpy grizzly, if
you will. After a hefty few months of wallowing, I decided that my slightly
unhinged and flat life needed a re-service. After all, do things really need to
be 100% broken to warrant the need to be fixed?
In
an attempt to bid farewell to the sulk, I culled everything that no longer made
me happy because, let's cut to the chase here, it is completely okay to focus on your own happiness. You are allowed
to travel and live where you want, spend your money on nice things or sometimes tell friends you just want a night in. To think about your own
happiness doesn’t make you selfish, it encourages you to take control of your
emotions. It is futile to push on believing that things will fix themselves if
you just sit back and watch life pass by.