I try to do it right, you know, life. For the past four years I’ve begrudgingly lived by the book. As it stands I’ve come out, if not sickeningly ordinary, mildly better because of it and I’d consider either/or a success. Now let’s not despair; I’ve danced with the wild, drank with the fish, and seen my share of glory days. I’ve fought a war, watched an inauguration in person, and survived Times Square on a new years eve. What does it all mean, though? Am I (supposed to be) building my arsenal of happiness, thoughts to be revisited when I’m melancholy? Should I be in a perpetual state of happy, letting old memories die to the new ones I’m (supposed to be) creating? At this point I wonder if it was enough. If it IS enough. As macabre as it may be, I wonder if I’d be satisfied with my life if I were to die in an hour. The answer varies. Sometimes I let my dramatics get the best of me (that’s because they are the best of me!) The long and short of it I guess is, are you happy now?