I’m the most content when there is too much going on.

Too much work. Too many places to go. Too many people to see. Name it, I’d rather do more than less. And once I conquer something—shit’s over, I’ll go for more.

I blame my divorce, because I learned the art of distraction. I blame New York, because of its fast pace. I blame the woman I always was but hid inside, because I was too busy caring for someone else and not myself.

But I’m over my divorce, I no longer live in New York and the woman that I am today is pretty fucking badass—so I want more. I live for constant stimulation.

The other day I was describing to my mother how I was between two job offers. I ended up choosing the one promising more growth as far as my career goes, “I’m going to go for the challenging one,” I said. She responded with, “You like challenges, don’t you?”

Ding. Ding. Ding. Winner winner. Chicken dinner. That’s the realest thing she’s said to me since moving home.

I still think I need to slow the fuck down. I still believe I could use some simplifying in my life. So I’m slowly acclimating. I literally walk too fast, while going nowhere in particular. I have to tell myself that it’s ok if I stay home and watch “Friends” for 5 hours, the world will continue spinning and it’s perfectly cool if I do absolutely nothing. There’s no bucket list bar I simply must hit up, there’s no clock running out. I no longer have to force myself out on a Saturday night after an exhausting day, because no one is telling me “You can sleep when you get back to Cali.”

I’m here, but how do you teach a restless girl to rest? *Shrugs* I’m trying.