Once more, I have failed no one but myself. And you guys.

If anyone does read this blog, which the traffic stats informs me you do. If you do: Hi, there! I’m dreadfully sorry!

I’m sure the mundanities of my life interest no one but myself. I am not the sort of narcissist who truly believes that the world is interested in what I had for breakfast (a grande one-pump gingerbread nonfat chai latte from Starbucks) or how many hours I spent in the car today as my family meandered Vegas-ward (five hours) or what I did in this horribly long car trip (watched Hercules and three episodes of Bones).

Instead, I will simply offer this: I’m sort of glad I don’t have much to write about anymore. Things do still concern me, of course. I am human, after all. I breathe, I bleed, I cry. My mother and I fight, my roommate bothers me, and my phone won’t hold a charge, I have yet to acquire a boyfriend, but that’s life, and I realize that.

Now is the first time I’ve been truly happy in a long time. I’ve been building toward it and finally, finally, I think I’ve reached it.

I am, right now, in a hotel room in Bakersfield, CA, the halfway point between my tiny podunk town and Las Vegas, where my grandparents live. Tonight, the family played Clue, and I won. Things are good.