Tuna and Puppy

Well here it is, my 230th post.
I wasn't sure what I wanted to say, given that 230th seems rather large and some sort of benchmark in a way, but I said screw it and decided to write whatever came to mind.
Last week I got an offer to be a freelance writer for the Loudoun-Times Mirror (a situation that requires a lot of background and a whole lot of what could be chalked up to dumb luck). Today was a day off so I was working on my writing samples, which, for some reason, is the most stressful thing for me. Today I got a phone call from an editor at the Times-Mirror, asking if I'd be interested in interviewing for a position as an editorial assistant, a full time position. Oh and by the way, the interview is tomorrow. Have everything ready at 9am. Gulp. So tomorrow I interview for that, then head to my other job. The resume was easy to get together, but the writing samples--why is it so damn intimidating? I only have a few pieces I've written that I can look at and say, "Yes, that is actually what I wanted it to be." everything else is like a parent and a child: I only started it--what it became is a mystery. After much struggling I went with slight changes to a paper I wrote in college on (I kid you not) the religious dimentions of the railroad, and a story I wrote last year about a friend and a fire. I don't even know what they want, so we shall soon see how it all pans out.
Gosh, 230 posts. What the hell have I been saying?
That first post came before Thanksgiving senior year of college. Here I am, almost three years later, in my warm little townhouse with my three girlfriends and two cats, one that looks like a fish ("Tuna" as I like to call her, who is currently pushing at my left arm) and "Puppy" the kitten that seriously acts like a dog (and I hate cats. They aren't mine). I have a great car, a decent job, my family is close (but not stifling), my friends are nearby and numerous. I have community, I have adventures, I have options and plans. What I have been through in those 230 posts has been both hilarious and tragic. But I'm happy.
Tonight I had dinner with Natalie, my old mentor from high school. We had a long conversation about fear, and eventually I admitted that my hesitancy to go back to a doctor about my back pain stems directly out of fear. The last time I went brought too much in the way of possibilities and tragedies: I hardly think myself capable of handling such weights again. I never realized it until tonight: I hate that fear is dictating such a large part of my life. But what of it?