What a strange thing to say: I'm okay. After a terrible year filled with suicidal ideations, I'm doing just fine. The secret? Extra Klonopin. Apparently it was my anxiety and not my depression that was giving me such fits.
The psychiatrist seems to have figured it out. If I could stop being sick on Wednesdays, my psychologist would be great. Well, he is great--tummy bugs are not. I'll have a nice scar where things went wrong between a knife and a head of cabbage. I've got the world's best husband, two worthless yet lovable dogs, too many cats--life is actually good.
Know what else is strange to say? I'm turning 30 on the 22nd. I'll be making this for the occasion. I even got pistachio flour so I could make it taste reeeeeeeal yummy. And since it's such a terrifying, round number as 30, you have to do as I say. I want you to donate to Dolls for Downs in honor of the big 3-0. Alternately, gifts to the suicide hotline are always appreciated. And I like flowers. :)
Thanks, everyone. Looks like it's all uphill from here.