You know what? I am well and truly over feeling sorry for myself.

I woke up this morning and thought, hey, what on earth do I have to be down about in the first place? I’m young, I’m gorgeous, I’m intelligent and I have just scored a genuine Paul Frank tank top from the op shop for 50 cents. (It fits almost perfectly too, and when I wear it, from the waist up I go in and out in all the right places!) My life is cushy and I don’t have any major problems with my folks (apart from a brief spat with DD having the shits with me over the whole internet/downloading ban thing, but I’m sure I’ll be able to crack the code on the dial-up modem soon enough…). So what if I didn’t meet a guy at the ballroom dancing classes? So what if I don’t have a boyfriend yet? At least I actually had a guy who was interested in me, maybe even two, unlike a lot of the other (skinnier and wearing a lot more makeup) chicks who also went to ballroom dancing.

Last thing I want would be to fall into a faux depression like B. Don’t get me wrong, B is a perfectly nice, dynamic, likeable, multi-layered person, but that’s exactly my point. She’s popular and influential, friends with everyone and fitting in with every group. She’s a lonely only like yours truly, which, speaking from experience, only means that you are ridiculously precious and outrageously spoiled by your parents. Remind me again why she thinks she’s suicidal?

Okay, now is the time to call me an insensitive cow. I know all the stuff about the people you’d least expect to commit suicide doing it, the people who always seemed so happy on the outside. Perhaps I don’t understand her life at all. Perhaps I don’t understand the depression and profound sadness that stems from being gratuitously rich, having every material possession you desire and knowing that basically everyone loves you. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that sounds pretty damn close to the perfect life to me.

So anyway, enough of my unjustified bitching. Let’s get back to the original line of thought here. Besides for the fact that I have been gorging myself on chocolate and have started spending all day sitting on my arse designing pointless web pages and blog templates, from an outsider’s point of view – because everyone judges themselves too harshly – I am reasonably proportioned and not horribly overweight. I look passable when not wearing makeup and have pretty much got the adolescent zit problem under control. I don’t need to slut myself up like some of the girls I know to feel good about myself. As nice as it would be, I don’t need a guy in my life in order to be happy. Baby, I rock!

Ah, the feelgood-ness of feminine empowerment.

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