I’ve turned 29 this month. Looking back at my ups and surplus downs, I think I ended up in a good place. Thank you, dear God, for giving me this life. I’m truly grateful. I know you exist because my birthday wish from age 6 to 20, my cat Jinxy, is snoring right next to me while I’m typing this.

I guess people do change. My mom made me beg her to allow me to get a cat until I was 20, and didn’t sit in the same room with my cat until after I moved to Boston at 24. Now she misses him even when we go on day trips, kisses him every day, and gets jealous when he sleeps with me.

I look exactly the same as I did at 20. That’s why I really enjoy my gray hair. It reminds me that I’m not 20 anymore. And despite the propaganda that as a woman, my good years are gone by 25, I love getting older. My late 20s are way better than my clueless and confused early 20s.

I feel like I’ve changed a lot, and lo and behold my biggest success in life is that the older I get, the closer I feel to my 9 year old self.

Just doing my thing, unrushed. Reading, painting, scouting. I never was cool or popular. I never wanted to be. If anything, cool and popular people get under my skin.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

Damn right Jack.

Jack Kerouac was really popular when I was in college. I remember seeing this quote on Tumblr all the time. It somehow pushed me to put him on the back burner. I’ll finally read On the Road this year. I can’t make promises though, and I definitely can’t commit. I’ll work on that this year.

I rarely get déjà vu anymore, if any at all. I wonder if that’s because of [redacted]. I love waking up feeling good. No pain stabbing my heart. I feel my brain repairing, resetting.

Almost ready for another road.