In four weeks I will have a bachelor’s degree in Writing, Literature and Publishing, and if I’m lucky there might be some fancy latin involved. In five weeks, I will start work at a job that I’m excited about and looking forward to. I own a house, and I’m falling more and more in love with it every day. I’m in debt, but I have a plan to get out of it, and I’m ready to work hard to do it quickly. I’m 30 years old, and with the exception of the loss of my father, I’m happier than I’ve been since I was a teenager.
I’m getting along with my sister. I’m saying the difficult things, and she’s hearing them the way I mean them. We had a two hour conversation the other day that was nothing but good. I’m amazed and excited. I’ve missed her.
I’m looking forward to books I will read, art I will make, great summer nights that will happen because I don’t have any homework hanging over me like a curfew. I’m inspired to write, even though I’ve been writing on a schedule for months.
I’ve reached the summit of this particular mountain. It’s all downhill from here.