Never catch your daughter past sunset.

I actually started this last night because I was the only one awake, and it was really quiet and I was watching the news, listening to a light rain and just basically being content. Smoking Hot Roommate was a little under the weather all day, which caused her to do something she never, ever does: go to bed early. She sleeps about four hours a night, every night and always has...it is a rare day that she goes to bed before I do.

Anyway, being content is a segway into what I wanted to write about. I had a fantastic weekend, and was all set to write about that. That, however, is now only half of what I will cover. This will make sense in a minute, I promise.

I write all the time about how much I love getting emails from strangers. Whether it is a comment that you don't want public, or something else, I love getting notes and reply to just about every one. As a special incentive, I am much more open in emails than I am in blog form...

Anyway, every once in a while I get a really bizarre email. I have been propositioned a bunch of times...(I think there are some search engines that light up every time a blog says "blow job" and alert the weirdos to send emails)...and I have been scolded a couple of times, too. Someone told me I was going to hell, and if I wasn't careful, I would be damning the little one, too.

But yesterday I got a first...an email accusing me of being in need of psychiatric help. The email came from a sort-of regular reader who said he was catching up and thinks I am overly happy about things. He seems offended that I like my job, don't have anything bad to say about my boyfriend, and rarely complain about things. His basic premise is that no one should be that happy, and that I should probably look into why I am sugar-coating everything to fool myself into it.

First of all...I complain about stuff all the time...where the fuck have you been? And second, what is wrong with being happy? What on earth do I really have to be unhappy about? There are certainly things I wish were different (like, I wish I had a normal relationship with a parent. Or that I had any parents, for that matter). But on balance, I feel like I have been extraordinarily fortunate, and I am in a really good place, and I don't mind enjoying it.

I don't feel guilty about being happy. I don't think life is more exciting if there is misery involved. I don't feel the need to create unnecessary drama. I don't feel the need to apologize for being happy. My life isn't perfect, but I am awfully happy about it. I like where I am and I like who I am. I am not sure what possessed me to respond to this email, but whatever, that's what I felt like...

Oh, and I have a therapist, just in case.