I feel like to older I get, the more.. normal I get. It’s rather odd. Years ago, I would have been fine living in an apartment with the cat for the rest of my life. Now I want average things, like a house and a wedding. My body is still telling me I might want such an average thing as a baby. I daydream a little now about what I’ll be like in a few years when John has a good job and we actually have health insurance or we can buy a new couch. I want such mediocre things as nice shelving to hide the clutter and candles to make things smell good. I feel embarrassed to admit it too; I don’t want to be like every other woman out there. I don’t want to have a wedding ring made out of diamonds, a sofa that matches the curtains and shoes to match every outfit. I feel like the more and more I slip into normal, the less and less myself I’ll be. But I cant help wanting them.
