Is it ok to be content?

Maybe it's sleep or old age talking, but I used to think that the purpose of life was intense accomplishment and happiness. I wouldn't say I was a hedonist (my Catholic upbringing prevented that quite well), but I never thought I would be ok with just being...well ok. I think this leads up to the fact that The Real World (the actual one, not that MTV baccanal of idiocy) is about to bite me in the ass, and I'm terrified. I like this little cocoon of comfort in which I am still a child. Child may be the wrong word. But a "young'un." That's a better word. I'm a young'un. Work? Grad school? Marriage?? Kids??!!! Holy hell. I just want to have naptime and color outside the fucking lines with my crayons, man. I want my mom dammit. I know I sound a little juvenile, but Thanksgiving is so close that I can taste it. I can taste the turkey, the lack of responsibility, and the cranberry sauce. The proximity of the holidays is probably giving way to this childish behavior. Talk to me in about a week, and I'll be embracing the adult life again.

On a different note, I really want an albino frog.