August can't arrive fast enough

I don't know what it is, but when I got home last night from our Team Travelwhore meeting, I felt like I could do anything.

See, I'm actually going to Europe this summer. Like, for real, yo. Plane tickets and hostel reservations have been made. I possess a brand-spanking-new passport.

There ain't no backin' out now.

My mood was exponentially lifted... I was dancing like a fool in my livingroom, I tidied my house like effing Mary Poppins, and I tuned my guitar perfectly. I strummed some chords, and they sounded more beautiful than I'd ever heard myself play before.

I thought about the people we'll meet in the 2 or 3 hostels we'll be staying at... the first-hand, close-up view of green Irish fields... the sound of bustling Londoners on the tube... drinking Guinness in Ireland... a indie rock show or two in an English pub instead of fucking Cavanaugh's... actually walking across Abbey Road... and I felt happier, wiser, and boundless... and I'm not even there yet.

For once in a long time, I didn't feel the nagging fear. The sinking feeling of sadness. I didn't feel like I needed to tear apart every emotion to shreds to figure it out.

I just wish that feeling hung around in all the other aspects of my life, for longer than a day.

Note: I am not depressed. I am just fine. There is nothing wrong with me.

So why suddenly do I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle again? I hate this. I'm a happier girl than this, I swear.

I guess I just scare easy. I'll be aight.