Sick Muse

I've been thinking.
I am 21 years old. Two years away from the perfect age. I live in a houseshare with four other people. Idiots, but artists. I go to a prestige University in south England, transferring to an even more prestige University in south London in September. I had the chance to move to California for 4 years, if money didn't matter. I am single and relatively enjoying it. I have enough male friends to randomly start affairs, but won't do it because I like them too much. I also have people on another continent caring about me, sending me birthday presents, although we won't be seeing each other for another year. I have the best friend back home you can ever imagine. I have friends in other countries who come to visit me only to drink gin with me at the beach. I have two people here who come to my place only to eat ice cream with me so I'm not alone. I have the chance of having amazing housemates for the next three years, if things actually work out the way they should. I could be super famous by the age of 30, making thousands every time I sell one picture. I have every chance in the world.
Yet, I am still unsatisfied.