Life Moves On

When my boyfriend first broke up with me a month ago, I figured that I had exactly six options:
1) get a job (which was necessary anyway)
2) move to a new city (proved economically infeasible, plus I got prompted to take a job here--can I just say that sometimes I don't like getting inspiration?)
3) switch wards and face the Primary curse again (in my home ward, all young single females inevitably end up teaching munchkins),
4) hole up in my room to write an angst-filled novel that could--possibly--top the YA bestsellers list but nowhere else
5) become a secret agent
or, 6) purposefully become a witness to a serious Mafia-related crime and go into witness protection, which would force a relocation, a new identity, a new job, and no contact with my previous life.

I must admit I favored option number 6. It offered clean breaks, something I had never had trouble coming by until this boyfriend. But a month later, I must admit that I'm glad that door #6 never opened.

I am beginning to understand how I can still be friends with my ex-boyfriend. I got a job. I made a lot of new friends. I discovered some new things to do . . . The list goes on. Because life marches on, like it or not. And unlike the marching band I used to participate in, life seems predisposed to wind up in a good place.