Best Life Ever

It is my mantra. I say it to myself, as if to will it to be true. And yet, it is a wanton task.

It already is.

Maybe then it is a celebration of what is and what surely is to come.

The inspiration for this fully self-indulgent mess of words: my dining room table.

-Addendum-

"My" dining room table, by all rights our, is actually my parent's. It is the table at which I grew up, and once again it resides at the Manse of Glory. Upon our entry to my once, and once again, home my parents gave(?) it to us as we lacked a table and entertained a very formidable and blatantly apparent dining space.

It is not the provenance of said table that incites this monologue, rather the contents, or goods it supports. My buddy's computer, and he at the helm, our address book with the people we love the most and who in turn love us, an unsolicited, though somewhat exciting, magazine entitled "get married," the receipt from my buddy's nephew's b-day shirt, my phone, the watch my father gifted me, the glue I use when I stamp, the last set of cards my mother and I made, today's mail, my keys, a hot robin's egg blue dietsinreview.com shirt, his phone, and his convocation RSVP.

These are the contents of my life. These are the minutiae that make up our day to day.

This-this is the best life ever.