my god, she can't possibly be that neurotic

so i have spent the last hour fumbling about my stupid blog site, wondering why the fucking page wouldn't open. switch to netscape and ahhh. i should have known.
what i was planning to write was: i am very happy overall. i feel that giddy lalala crushy glow that i had essentially written off as an emotional option. that inane elation, however, is peppered with agitated fits of self-sabotage. the few icky things in my life keep seeming to intrude, amplified, sending me into a tailspin. i then start to doubt my jubilance. i think, this is too good to be true. this is seeming too fucking easy. i must be being played. he knows me well enough to know what i want to hear. i shouldn't put myself into as completely open a position as i have. i am setting myself up to be devastated. and so it goes. even as i write this i recognize my lunacy. i am being paranoid. i am not trusting happiness because nasty regretful depressive guilty self-disgust is so much more understandable.
i am not editing at all. detachedly, i am curious how coherent this will be.
work at tacoma: busy, fun, competent. grim theme du jour: anemia. the foxhound with the goldenrod sclera. (euthanized.) the golden retriever with the splenic hemangiosarcoma. (euthanized.) the cat with idiopathic white gums... i left before finding the outcome of that one. the dalmation projectile-vomiting after 2 seperate enterotomies. the bouvier with the amputated rear leg and the very nice owner. wrestling with a 140# mastiff. the moon is waning. it was cauled in mist on the way home. my apartment is always very warm. it smells like incense even though i haven;t burned any. i bought another bevy of plants yesterday. it is nice to come home to green things.
5 things i want to do before i die (in no order of importance, and undoubtedly among hundreds):
-snorkel
-eat something from a street vendor in thailand
-see a drive-in movie
-take someone i love to pere lachaise
-go to graceland
these all involve travel, sort of. i suppose i should quit my jobs and re-prioritize. i always hoped that i would know when i was dying, that i would have enough time to Plan. i would hate to be victim of some abrupt accident and have so many things unaccomplished, not to mention people having to look through my disheveled aftermath: the embarrassingly bare journals, the unwashed sheets, the old newspapers with every crossword completed and surrounded by doodles of grouchy faces. i would love to leave behind a dog-eared, thoughtfully underlined work of literature, but it may end up being a trashy magazine in the loo instead.
"you've become a sweet taste in my mouth" tina turner sings. jesus, she read the undercurrent of my thoughts exactly.