It’s my birthday, there shall be cake for all

Thirty-one and still an utter failure at life…

image

(photo attribution – original owner: D Sharon Pruitt
https://www.flickr.com/#/photos/pinksherbet/4825652728/)

I really didn’t want to be living at home, though that’s not going to be continuing much longer.

I thought I’d have traveled a bit more, but nope, not done that either.

I can’t drive.

I haven’t got the stellar career people were predicting fifteen years ago.

I don’t have a partner.

I don’t have an exciting social life.

I have got …

Fantastic, supportive, wonderful friends.

A kind and generous family.

Some improvement in my mental health.

Lots of books.

My doggies, who are my darling babies and I’ll gut anyone who says otherwise (I said some improvement in my mental health, don’t expect miracles).

I know what I want to do with my life. I want to write. I do write. I am a writer, I just don’t get paid for it yet…

I know how I’d like to earn a living

Pretty certain I know what I want and don’t want from life. I’ve developed enough confidence and gained a little education; I am starting to know myself.

Actually I haven’t failed at life entirely. Not by my standards anyway. I can’t judge my life (which is only a third lived so far, so really it’s too early) by other people’s expectation, only by my own.

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