Full.

Just had brunch with Y. Yummy. Especially yummy when it's free. It pays to be nice to strangers.

That just made me sound like a prostitute. Or a women of low morals, as Mommy would say. Mommy is funny. Grandpa called syphilis a "woman's disease." And both of them with medical degrees. Yay third world countries!

Y is on a path and seems to know that this is the path for her. That kind of certainty is enviable and mindblowing and I don't know whether to gear myself up or question more. I don't let myself think of anything else, other paths. Bad things happen when I do. Like when one day I'm a happy archaeologist in training and enjoying playing with bones and studying settlement patterns and then the next...bam! Poof! Mental health care here I come.

I do daydream with the idea of being and advice columnist (because obviously they make tons of money, allowing me to pay off graduate school loans. take out a mortgage on a kick-ass house, buy a new car that doesn't have parking attendents saying "There's something wrong with your brakes. I could hear them. Both sides." and buy a Celine handbag in a year).

(Neiman Marcus)

Pretty, no?

Also, because advice columnists get to tell people what to do and don't have to have malpractice insurance and worry about forming the therapeutic bond and no one calls advice columnists with suicidal ideations that you have to address right now.

My vision of advice columnestry (hee!) is probably quite wrong, but I enjoy it. Almost as much as I enjoy making up new words.

But obviously not as much as I enjoyed brunch with Y because 1) was yummy. Did I mention that? 2) was free. Makes everything yummier. Like salt. 3) haven't talked to Y in ages and need to talk to her more, but her path makes that difficult. 4) someone made up the word brunch at some point and hats off to them.