Today I opened a savings account under my own name. After months of deliberating and lazing about, I finally took the step and started earning the beautiful thing that is interest. I used to feel a pane of guilt every time I deposited a paycheque and the teller who ask me “if [I] am interested in opening a saving account.” The amount isn’t extraordinary, for most of it salvaged by my frugal ways. anyway, so now my money is sitting there, modestly and happily.
This is probably glaringly obvious to anyone that actually reads my rants, but now just, it occurred to me that I don’t do stories. And by that, I mean, I don’t report on my life, not in a narrative manner, at least. All of my entries are slim slices of my day – how I react, my thought process, what ticks me off, etc. That must be pretty dull, not to mention nonsensical to you most of the time.
Oops. I know I tend to ramble. I see this blog as my place to expound on the issues that plague my mind, issues that aren’t anecdotal enough to bug people about in real life.
Could this be an unintentional, misguided attempt at self psychotherapy? I have no clue.
I am really grateful for all of you for following the meanderings of my brain. It goes a long way in assuring me that I am not singular in my woes, my dilemmas, and my joys.