I need to write

Me and this thing called a blog have a contentious relationship. On one hand I need the practice. Ever since I've become "happy", I've had less and less use for this thing, and thereby my only talent has suffered. I used to be funny. I used to have people who willingly read my stuff.

But I'm hesitant to jump back into the blogging thing. See, my problem is that I've become the girl I've always hated. I have a boyfriend. In lieu of spending my nights in the bar and falling asleep next to the commode, I spend cuddled up next (or talking on the phone) to the boy. Blogging shows me just how boring I've become. No more funny stories. No more embarrassing run-ins, instead my life revolves around movies, dinners at home, and *maybe* a bottle of wine that I picked up at my local wine shop.

Perhaps this change in attitude stems from my recent move to the Upper Upper East Side, the part of town where you see a "white flight" daily on the 96th St stop on the 6 train. No longer are bars just a stumble home, but now require planning, cabs, and much longer time spent in stilettos. Or maybe it's the way I've brought in my birthday this past year cursed me--law and order, my sister, and a lovely cat named Sabrina. Or maybe I'm just getting old, folks.

Monday I start my new job, where I'm doing things a bit differently this time. A love of Banana Republic. No Booze Sunday through Thursday. Incessant chatter about my "wonderful boyfriend". And a love of popular fiction. I want to blend in and be just like everyone else.