I haven't done this in a while. It's going to take some getting used to. Obviously, I haven't really been putting my heart into this whole blogging thing. Well, to be honest, I haven't really been putting my heart into anything lately.

Which is sort of the reason why I wanted to do this. I'm thinking that maybe, just maybe, my brain is feeling fried because there's too much stuff going on in it. I can't concentrate anymore. I just sort of float through life, and it's not fair to The Boy. Or myself.

Speaking of The Boy, I love him more than anything else in the world. The car has seriously done wonders for us. I know it doesn't really make any sense, but it's the honest-to-God truth. There's still one problem though. A few nights ago, I was looking online at some nice engagement rings (yes, I'm one of "those"), and he said something like, "Well, in a few years, when I propose, I'll get you one like that." I said, "A few years?" He said, "No good?" I swear I could feel my uterus shrivelling, just a teeny bit.

Come on, we're not getting any younger here. I'll be 27 in a few short months. I wanted to be married, going on baby #2 by now.

I remember, when I was young (like 13), I thought of the year 2000 as the mid-point of my life. Can you believe that? How naive is that? I thought of 22 as the mid-point of my life, punctuated only by one success after another. Maybe a record deal, or a prestigious career of some kind. The kind of career that would warrant a briefcase and pantsuit on a daily basis, and would pay enough to provide for those suits. Cashmere, designer, in power colours, like navy blue, chocolate brown and, best of all black. I thought that by 22, I would have it all figured out. I would own a house and maybe a cottage, a nice car or three, nice furniture, nice clothes... and a husband.

Let's compare. Here we are, in 2004, and I still don't have any of those things. I live in a shabby, rundown, third-floor walkup. I don't have a car. The Boy has a car that he lets me sit in. Our furniture has been mangled by our pride of cats, with little resistance from us. My clothes are covered in the fur of the aforementioned cats, so much so that the lint brush is my new best friend.

And husband? Maybe in a few years.