Life on Paper

I write this at five past midnight on Sunday morning. My eyes keep shifting from the inexplicably shiny floor (I polished it not long ago and I can actually see my reflection in it), to the corner sofa (James is sleeping, he might wake and find me blogging, which would be an issue as he doesn't know I have a blog, although I'm not quite sure I can still say "I have a blog" when I haven't written a post since June 2009) to the screen. Try as I might, I cannot continue to write as though everything is okay, when the fact that I am writing is clear evidence to the contrary: we all know that I only write when I am unhappy. I feel like the church goer who only attends church when they need a favour from God. So why am I unhappy? It's nothing exotic so I will not bore you with a full breakdown of the reasons why I spent Saturday night polishing floors. If you were minded to know, you would probably find from a simple process of deduction from a list of the most common reasons for unhappiness in women (which, according to Google, are 1) financial 2) negative body image and 3) men) that my problems were most likely in the financial/negative body image realm as a few sentences ago I mentioned that James was asleep on the sofa. Did I also mention that it was our sofa and that he was asleep in our living room and that it was my own polished floor? In the 11 months since I last posted, I have made major progress on the commitment front. I now live with a boy in a two bedroom house with a garden in East London. To be honest, I am not sure if my self from 11 months ago would have taken greater issue with the "live with a boy" part or the "East London" part. I was always a "south east 'til I die" kinda gal and I don't know what changed and when, all I know is that on a Saturday night I am now more likely to be found on Brick Lane with the too cool for school crowd drinking a punchbowl cocktail whilst sat on the kerb. Anyway, I digress. I was talking about my unhappiness. Now I know that I am prone to being a tad bit dramatic, but I sometimes wonder if I am capable of being happy. I say "sometimes" because I am almost positive I would be forever ecstatic if I won the £87 million Euro jackpot. I have a boyfriend who is usually amazing, I have a job I want (note I said "want" and not "like"), I am young (still 23) and I am living in one of the most amazing cities in the world. What more could a girl want? Well, skinny hips and some cash to occasionally enjoy living in one of the most amazing cities in the world are just two things. A multi-region dvd player so I can watch season 5 of Grey's Anatomy is another. Don't worry, I have already been told that "if those are your biggest worries Ella, you have an amazing life" but I should remind you that this is my blog (can I still claim ownership of a blog that I have neglected for almost a year?)and I can write what I want. Maybe "unhappy" is the wrong word. Dissatisfied or discontent would be more appropriate. *sigh* My mood has not improved in the 55 minutes it has taken me to write this post, I have just lost track of what I was complaining about in the first place because, let's face it, I only ever write to complain. No worries, I am sure I would have remembered what it was I wanted to complain about by the time I write my next post on say 22 April 2011...