Yesterday, after a day of chilling out at my house, I decided to go over to my boyfriends. His name is Zach.
After a while of giddy laughing bouts, we still kept giggling.
I definitely was thinking about my friend's big 18th birthday party I had chosen to skip, thinking, would I have as much fun at the party as I am having here, with Zach?
Maybe. I would surely smile and push myself to find the humor in it all, but I don't think I could've smiled a smile that was as genuine as the one I had on my face last night. I was overwhelmingly, purely, happy.
And let me tell YOU something. I hate the word happy.
I'm no cynic, but the word happy is so broad and generic, that it usually fails to have much of a meaning to me.
But I've decided that I would define the word 'happy' on my own.
I'm thinking about last night, how I felt laying on Zach's couch, how I felt helping him build up his softball-sized rubberband ball, how I felt being in silence for a while, how I felt knowing that I would be reminded for quite a long time that had I missed the party, but I felt okay about it. Because, in all of my so-called independent selfishness, I knew that I would never have felt the way I felt that night at Zach's house, anywhere else. And I knew, subconsciously, that I couldn't get any amount of those feelings at the party.
No matter how shocking it is to my friends, I didn't want to be anywhere else but Zach's house that night.
It's scary, yet somehow empowering, knowing that only one person can truly fill that gap, the gap that my group of friends could no longer fill even one-eighth of.
So, if not going to all the parties and bonfires deems me a buzzkill, then I am one joyous, crazy, satisfied buzzkill.
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