The Cliche In My Ribs

I drove today, for the first time in months. Had my down jacket on, which is like wearing my bed, so snug and warm I had the window down and the cold night air on my face. The music up loud. Hollering incoherently on the downhill rush.

There was nothing special about my destination, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the day. It was just a sudden moment of utter exuberance.

They say, "It felt like I was going to burst." As if the organs with which we produce and feel our emotions are housed in our ribs, as if these intangible moods have the power to put physical strain upon those ribs, as if there were a serious danger of physically exploding with joy.

It's a cliche because it's overused, and it's overused because it's true.

I wanted to carry this bubble of happy on and blow it bigger. A night bar hopping and talking ludicrous shit and giggles is exactly what is required, but alas, my possee are overseas or out of town or otherwise engaged.

Instead, I'm at my parents, got the house to myself, sprawled on the couch with a cup of tea at my side, the World Cup on their fuck-off big TV, nice toasty gas heater killing even the hint of a chill, and the two best dogs in world jonsing for space on my lap.

Not quite the same as mischief and mayhem. Not a second prize either. My heart is still puffed up and manic. There's ice cream in my future.

Being me is fucking glee-inducing. For no reason whatsoever. My ribs aren't used to this.