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What I would like, more than anything else, would be to live a life that's of interest. Sure, I have a shrieking baby and a husband that is A++++ and excellent... is about as far as I got the last time I tried to write anything vaguely archival, strung into sensible enough sentences to comprise the first real entry in ages, but clearly laziness was too debilitating for that. Mm, it's hard because I'm just so full of words and feelings, and when I start something I like to take my time with it and get it all down and then my baby cries or I get bored oh god it absolutely kills me. Now it strikes me that that is in fact bullshit - what I would like more than anything else would be some fucking organisation, for me to be able to clean my house and have it stay that way, and then get on the millions of things I mean to do which just accumulates in disgusting piles around me until it becomes one with my being and the squalor that accompanies my existence. It's my birthday and all I see is everything in my tiny, tiny house, I do try but I am so bad at it, following through, being motivated enough to do things I dislike and keep up with them, and then it just gets worse and worse and I'm wholly incapacitated and depressed in every moment that I'm not thoroughly content, cooing over my ridiculous child. She really is the one thing categorically excellent about my life right now, in every possible way, I've never been so happy, but when I'm alone with the hovel I live in, with all the things I want to do but don't because I lack firstly the willpower, secondly the process, and then maybe the time, and I feel so very small and worn out.

I'm a quarter of a century old, which is less dramatic than it sounds. I guess I'm an adult now - I mean look at my husband and baby, surely that ought to qualify me into proper grown-up-ness. I don't really know what to do with myself at all, I don't know how it is possible for things to get done, and then stay done. I don't know how to be alone and what to do with myself, outside of anything to do with Cece. Jesus, I don't know how I could have been happy before, before I had my baby, but she is my darling and I am the luckiest.

I'm terrible on birthdays. Birthdays make me think of how much I am not doing with my life, what I am failing at, and how after another fucking year nothing has changed and I'm still at odds with myself. I'm especially bad at being happy on birthdays - I'm a happy person, don't get me wrong, but I'm just the sourest birthday girl in the world, and I think I've been this way since I was a child. Back then I think I was unhappy because I didn't feel like I was getting enough attention, even at parties held in my honor, and now that I'm older whatever I get always feels like too much. It's kind of like a really, really small wedding that continues forever, a slow-burning exhaustion that never wavers throughout the years, a smile you try to hold for too long. Less celebrating more living, that's for me, I think. God forbid we need a reason to eat, drink and get stuff, there's something canned and worn that bothers me about all this happy birthday-ing.