This is the TJ Maxx of conversations

Adults are amazing.Let me rephrase…REAL adults are amazing. The kind of adult that grinds their own coffee beans, pours them into a filter (the NIGHT BEFORE), and successfully has their coffee prepared for themselves as they sit down catching up on the morning news, eating a piece of perfectly toasted toast with butter and jelly, and sipping on their coffee. I burn my toast every fucking time.

My morning doesn’t look anything like that. I’m currently in the market for a new job. So, I have a lot of time on my hands, to say the least. (If you follow me on Instagram, I am sure you have gathered this much already). Allow me to share with you what my morning consists of:

I wake up at 8:51 AM every day. (Whoever sets their alarms to like, 7:30 or 8AM on the dot, is a fucking psychopath. Don’t trust them). I walk to the bathroom, take a gander at the four new pimples that created a home for themselves on my face in the night, squeeze that puss out of them, and walk out. Without brushing my teeth- ONLY because at SOME point, I’m going to drink coffee and eat, so I tell myself I’ll just do it after- if I remember. Side note, I have fairly straight and white teeth. I’ve never had a cavity and I try to stay up to date on my yearly dental exams. (I’ve been slacking for the past two years, but in 2016 I was a rockstar of a patient). So when people ask what my secret is, I tell them to stop wearing their retainer and avoid flossing at all costs.

Moving on. I walk out of the bathroom and to my scale. This is habit. I weigh myself, only to grow disappointed that I have gained yet another pound overnight. I don’t know why this continues to surprise me…I probably ate leftover stir fry and half of a pint of ice-cream at 3 AM when I randomly woke up in the middle of the night. What the fuck did I expect?! After I have convinced myself that my scale is broken, I walk on over to my kitchen, take my morning medication, and grab my OVERSIZED box of goldfish. My G*d, I dig my hands in their like a hungry toddler who just started eating solid food. I’m on my couch at this point. Stretched out and comfortable as all hell. I catch a whiff of my armpits and holy shit, I’m in need of some deodorant. (As I typed that I JUST realized that if you break down the word, it’s de-odor. Took me nearly 24 years to figure that one out). Anyway, I slap on some deodorant and put some dry shampoo in my hair until it turns a nice shade of gray, and I’m pretty much ready for the day. LOL, oh, you’re suggesting a shower? Screw you. So- that’s a summary of my morning. Can you relate OR are you about to stop reading my blog forever because you just realized I am a dirty homeless man disguised as a decent looking woman? I don’t blame you.

I honestly have no idea where this entry is going. I woke up, had the most incredible conversation with the most AMAZING girl (hehe you know who you are), and started feeling inspired to write. Let’s be honest, I’m no F. Scott Fitzgerald, I don’t know how to properly use parentheses or commas, and my blog posts are incredibly hard to follow due to my self-diagnosed ADD. But here’s the thing…I’m relatable. I think. I mean, name another girl blogger who is openly willing to admit that she picks her nose and still eats lunchables. Yup. That’s what I thought.

What a damn tangent.

So as I’m conversing with this AMAZING girl, she’s like, “this is the TJ Maxx of conversations.” I don’t know if that phrase is commonly used but holy shit, it’s my new go-to. There is no better way to spend your day than sniffing every candle in TJ Maxx. And I’m talking EVERY CANDLE. Even the ones you see in the check-out line. Side note- does anyone ever buy food/candies/snacks at department stores like that? I don’t know. Kind of gives me the heebie- jeebies. Stay focused, Sam.

Today, I reached out to a Pinterest page that is catered to girls in college. Their boards consist of fashion trends, relationship goals, how to plan parties, DIY gifts, etc. The essentials of getting through college. But it’s missing one thing. Recognition of the hardships. This Pinterest page doesn’t prepare you for it. NO ONE prepares you for the adjustment disorder you are about to develop. No one tells you that you’re supposed to wash your sheets more than once a month. No one tells you that you’re going to have to coordinate times with your roommate to get a little frisky in your dorm room (if you catch my drift) with your boyfriend who is 400 miles away from you. No one tells you that you’re going to break up with your boyfriend 27 times and endure the most painful of all breakups. No one tells you that your sorority “sisters” will end up being the most spiteful and backstabbing bitches you’ll ever know. (I should have assumed that was coming). No one tells you that by the end of first semester, you’ll be completely dependent on Adderall. No one tells you you’re going to get beat up for picking a fight with the wrong girl on your floor. Okay- that doesn’t happen often- BUT IT HAPPENED TO ME and do you think I was prepared for that shit?! NO.

In all seriousness, college is a place where you start to explore your identity. It’s confusing and messy and even when you’re surrounded by a plethora of people who are going through the very same thing, you always seem to feel so alone. Sure you can attend 7 counseling sessions through the school before they cut you off, but do you think that sufficed? No. College is competitive and intimidating. The amount of pressure we endure goes unnoticed often times. Suicide rates for 15-24 year olds have tripled. http://www.collegedegreesearch.net/student-suicides/ (PLEASE EDUCATE YOURSELVES). We need to learn how to lift each other up. We need to empower one another. We need to know what to look for in ourselves and others when we start to feel low. Check in with ourselves. A tool I didn’t learn until I was in my 20s. I want to raise awareness, advocate for others, and inform students that they aren’t alone. Hell, I want to inform EVERYONE who is battling some form of change or struggle, that they are not alone.

So if you needed a reminder today that things will be okay, here it is. Fuck it. Don’t settle for “okay.” Things will be amazing. Keep fighting. Admit when you need help. Reach out. And go easy on yourself. It’s an unfair world but if we continue to work together, progress can be made. Cue “Imagine” by John Lennon. Yes, I may be a dreamer, but I’m also going to be an activist. I won’t sit idly by waiting for someone else to create change. If I have the ability to impact the life of one person, I will feel accomplished. If any of this resonates with you, please send me a message. Like I said, I have a lot of free time. 😉

Thank you, yet again, for reading my rambles.

Over and out.

I’m so sick of pickles (I’m not going to laugh at your jokes anymore pt. 2)

Okay so now that I’ve gotten my #pussypower rant out of the way (for now), let’s have ourselves a laugh. So, these said “men,” I have met…let me tell you a little bit about them. These guys still buy paper plates to avoid doing dishes. They leave their black, coarse pubes or beard or whatever-the-fuck hair in the sink and on the counter (and then complain when our hair SHEDS-as if that’s in our control). These “men” have empty refrigerators with the exception of a few beers and a jar of pickles. (I swear-pickles are a huge common denominator here…lol…get it? Pickles?) No but actually. Dudes love pickles. These men read a couple of Malcolm Gladwell books and think they have mastered life. They’ve got it all down. Their Bumble profiles boast about how they “love to travel!” but shortly after getting to know them, you learn that their last trip out of the country was in 2016 on a college study abroad trip. These said “men” are on the same playing field as my fifteen year old brother. Actually, that’s insulting. My little brothers, while they are immature as shit, THEY are men. Okay…not totally…but in the sense that they were taught respect. My parents didn’t abide by or enforce heavy gender norms (which was pretty rare in the 90s- so that was rad of them), so we shared Barbies AND Hot Wheels. I loved doing my brothers makeup (and they are SAINTS for letting me) but I also loved watching Monster Trucks with them. Alec, the older of the two, fucking loved playing with Polly Pockets. And in return…he let me come with him to Boy Scouts because he knew I despised hanging out with the girls. Uh…also…girl scouts literally fucking sell cookies. And I just googled where that money even goes to? I’m still unsure. Okay-anyway. Despite my brother being a total shithead, that sensitive little boy will always be there. And the ladies LOVE him for that! THE POINT: it isn’t a nicely trimmed beard and some bulging muscles that make you a man. It all boils down to just being a decent fucking human being.

In my later entries, I’ll discuss more details of specific dates and how tragic they have been, but tonight (or this morning? Idk, its 4am), I’m feeling totally passionate about this boys vs. men rant..so I’ll ride that wave for now.

In all seriousness, I learned something this evening. One of my most recent “prospects” (LOL that is awful of me to refer to them as after I just went on a tangent about respect-look at me objectifying men oh god), turned out to totally suck. Which sucks because he’s actually awesome and genuinely intelligent and funny…but he sucks. So it all sucks. I bring him up because a few weeks ago he told me I’d never been with a man. I initially laughed at that because like, alright, we get it…this is you insinuating that you’re going to show me what it’s like to have a real man, huh, babe? But then when I asked him to define “man,” his description matched mine. Well, mostly. Great sign, right? Wrong. This is a lie we know all too well. It’s the same as: “I’m not like the others.” SOMEHOW, even though we know better, it’s like we are conditioned to just fucking believe it until we’re proven otherwise. This is going to sound ridiculous. It is so incredibly obvious. But I realized that I started to accept that “man” can be defined with words. NO SAM COME ON. Being a man is shown through actions. I mostly feel defeated. I trust too easily. I wanted to so badly believe that it was my turn to be treated right. My turn to be treated with respect. My turn to feel like someone gives a SHIT about me. So, in sum- my expectations aren’t high. I don’t expect these glorified T.V. characters to be a realistic depiction of a man in any way. I don’t want that faux instagram relationship that is seemingly SO perfect. What I ask seems so feasible…so why is it so rare?

I woke up this morning, put on my favorite matching athletic outfit that I’ve maybe worn twice?? Ever. I BLASTED rap at 5AM (payback for my bitch ass neighbors having sex all night- but also- good for you guys). I walked my ass to the gym and as I ran on that dreadful thing you people call a treadmill, I recited “I love myself” over and over again. Sounds crazy, huh? No. It’s cliche and the design is still flawed-but I do believe that you cannot truly expect anyone to love you, until you learn to love yourself. One of my ex-boyfriends told me, “Just watching and listening to you struggle with all of your insecurities is tiring for me, I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.” He then followed that statement with, “I’ll tell you one thing…it’s incredibly unattractive and no one is going to want to deal with that.” Real gem, right? There is a lot of validity to what he was saying though. Confidence is SUCH a sexy quality. I want to exude that. So fuck your definition of “MAN.” I don’t need it, I don’t care to hear about it, and I don’t crave your love. (although you know, it would be a little nice).

I’m going to continue cooking meals for myself, and cleaning my apartment even when I don’t have guests over. I’m going to play MY favorite music when I’m getting ready, and I’m going to watch MY favorite shows. I’m going to use a hammer and a power drill (after watching youtube tutorials), and hang up all my decorations. When my hair falls out in the shower, I’m going to do that little thing where you just wipe the strand on the wall. Ladies, do you know what I’m saying? It won’t come off your hands after conditioning so you just make a little swirly hair and stick it to the side of the shower. I KNOW you know what I mean. I’m going to vacuum four times a day because crumbs make me cringe. I’m going to stay up late and eat goldfish in bed (attempting to avoid any spillage of crumbs). I’m going to cry when I want to. I’m going to facetime my mom 6 times a day asking her how long I should keep my chicken in the oven for, and what cleaner is the most useful and safe…but most importantly…I am going to disregard my quest of looking for a “man” right now because I just found the definition of a woman. She radiates kindness and independence. Love, for herself and for others. She is humble yet confident. She knows that she needs to begin to make herself a priority before she can truly help anyone else. She just fucking loves herself. What a liberating concept.

So, point of all of this: adios, boys!

Over and out.

I’m not going to laugh at your stupid jokes anymore (pt.1)

I think I’m going to use my dating life as writing material. Each date is a new entry. A new topic. A new story. Every story more raw and gritty, honest, humiliating, and comical than the next. (I’m going to talk about other things…but the point is-if Stanley Kubrick rose from his grave and decided he wanted to begin directing tragic love stories, my life could be his sole source of inspiration. But because of the 7 different plot twists that follow each dating encounter, we might need M. Night Shyamalan to assist as well.

I digress.

Majority of the guys I’ve been on dates with do follow me on social media. There is also a large chunk of them who have unfollowed me, or even worse, blocked me. *Flips hair.* Oh well! I don’t have much hesitation sharing these stories for a few reasons:

  1. They are fucking funny
  2. I’m not disclosing any names or highly secretive information
  3. THE GUY THAT GHOSTED ME AFTER HE DIDN’T GET LAID IS NOT READING MY BLOG.

My date from last week didn’t wake up today thinking, “You know…I left SUCH a lasting impact on Sam…let me refresh her blog and see if I’ve made it onto her newest entry!” Please. Men aren’t reading my texts, let alone my 27 paragraphs of weekly nonsense. I also cringe when typing the word man or, men. This isn’t what my momma told me a man would look like. I am not referring to sexual identities or gender biases right now…I’m talking about the difference between a boy and a man. I’m talking about maturity. Intelligence. RESPECT. Um…here’s a big one that is becoming seemingly more and more difficult for you MEN out there…common sense? Common courtesy? And above all else, don’t make an ass out of me.

I find it astonishing how tiny a guy can make a girl feel just by disregarding her intelligence. By mistaking her kindness for weakness. By confusing her empathy for being clingy. What you guys aren’t realizing is that we aren’t naive! Since a very young age, girls have been taught to “play the game.” We are informed that we must wait for a guy to make the first move (first text, first kiss, first time saying the L word, etc). We are taught to sit idly by and wait. We are taught to never chase a boy. They will only run further. We hear sayings such as “the less you care, the more he’ll care.” We are told to keep our “crazy” hidden for as long as we can. We laugh at your stupid jokes. We know we have to listen to you talk about yourself for hours because no one else will (for very valid reasons). We dress with intention: not revealing too much-just enough to get your attention and leave you wanting more. The first time a little girl comes home and tells her parents that a boy pushed her on the playground and they respond with, “it’s because he likes you”…well…that’s the first day a girl learns that from here on out, nothing will make sense. All of it is one giant mess. You can’t love TOO much, yet you can’t love too little. You can be emotional but ONLY when it’s warranted. I remember hearing that I should “dumb myself down a little” when talking to certain guys. Read that sentence again. I think that’s actually more insulting for the person on the receiving end?! I need to dumb myself down in order to maintain a fucking conversation with you? Jesus…I’m not discussing astrophysics over here. Whatever. This list has been engraved in our minds for years. This list is endless. Here’s the shittiest part of all of this: there is no balance, there is no just equality, there is no true fairness, and there are no answers. We just keep getting thrown out there to “live and learn,” but every time we think we’ve learned everything there is to know, another idiotic and novel lesson slaps us in the face. I know I’m making a LOT of generalizations here, but this is my reality. If this feels like your reality too, let’s change it. Together.

Thank you mom & dad

I wanted to share an open letter to my incredible parents. Thank you for being strong when I can’t be.

I’m currently crying in the neurology department waiting room. Yes, I’m a bit sleep deprived and these wires are irritating as all hell so I’m an emotional mess…but I look to my left, and there is a mother assisting her physically impaired daughter in a wheelchair. I’ve been sitting next to them for a grand total of five minutes? Maybe ten? And this mother’s compassion is BEAMING. her love is radiating throughout the room. Her patience is admirable. Her soft tone is soothing. She continues to make her daughter smile.

To my right there is a family signing to their son. Despite their silence, I can see hope in their eyes and glimpses of happiness within their smiles.

I’ve had this conversation with a few of my exes before. What would you do if you knew (before your child was born) that they were going to endure potentially significant health struggles? This ethical dilemma of scientific diagnostic work prior to the baby’s birth (I actually really do not know how this works but I’ll conduct some highly empirical google research) and the decisions that follow after the results, are beyond challenging. Perhaps you haven’t even began parenthood, and you’re already faced with these life changing questions. and it is LITERALLY life or death. Majority of the people I’ve spoken to claimed they didn’t have the ability to raise a child with any developmental, physical, behavioral, or severe mental illness. This is heartbreaking. And I’m not sitting here pointing fingers and claiming to have the ability to do it…because dealing with my own medical bullshit is beyond tiring and time consuming. Would I be able to give my child everything they need?

Of course we are ALL cheering for the recovery of the children. We want the best for everyone. We want healing and answers and less hospital visits. We want happiness for those who don’t achieve it so effortlessly. But what I’ve been failing to recognize…is the undying love and support that these parents/caretakers have within them. Skipping hair appointments to get your child’s blood drawn. Losing sleep out of fear of what may happen to your child when you’re not around. Lack of socialization because your child is your sole priority. I’m not saying that all family dynamics with sick children are like this…but I have the utmost respect for those parents who fight. Every. Single. Day. For their children. Those parents who sacrifice everything to ensure their children can have the lives they deserve. The mothers that want to shield their daughters from the cold world and the fathers who so badly want to throw a football with their son but won’t ever have the opportunity to do so.

I applaud these mothers. I applaud these fathers. I applaud these caretakers. These families. The ones that never get up. The ones that sometimes fight harder than their children. I vividly remember the first time I did my inpatient stay. My mom knew all the right questions to ask the doctors. My dad slept on a small hospital love seat for days. My mom sat next to me in the bed crying and praying (which brings tears to my eyes as I write this). They fought for me HARD. when I felt like giving up, they didn’t.

So this is an appreciation post. On behalf of all the sickies in the world who are lucky, who are BLESSED enough to have such incredible support systems…thank you. My love for you all endless.

Over and out

Look at yourself naked more often

A lot of my entries are lighthearted with subtle undertones of seriousness. Perhaps they aren’t as subtle as I’d like to believe; however, I throw in several “jokes” to mask my infinite amount of insecurities. But this is going to be a bit different. So, if you’re keen on exploring the depths of my mind, look no further, I am freely offering it up to you…be gentle.

I recently began reading, Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis. It’s incredible. She’s incredible. As a mother, a wife, a blogger, a woman, a writer, etc. etc. etc. Great read. The book is a total therapy session. So prepare yourself for some deep soul searching.

She discusses her first encounter and relationship with a man. She describes in great detail the pain she endured and the facade she was forced to craft if she wanted to earn his mere presence. She lost herself. And I’ve been there before. Some days I think there might be pieces of me who are still here. Hollis says, “As I write these words, I’m crying…I am so sad for that little girl who didn’t know better. I am devastated that nobody prepared her for life or taught her to love herself so she wasn’t so desperate to get any form of it from someone else. I’m sad that she had to figure it out on her own. I’m disappointed that it took her so long.”

I felt that same disappointment. I wrote something about it during this hard and lonely time that I wanted to share. (This is probably the most vulnerable I have ever made myself):

“I’ve been here before. It’s all too familiar. The bitter cold leaves you incapable of feeling any warmth. It’s dark. So dark. Do you know the feeling of getting out of bed at night to use the bathroom? You’re delusional. Stuck in a weird limbo. Fumbling your way around until your eyes begin to adjust. The only difference with this particular darkness, is the inability to adjust.

I’ve been here before. One would think that with practice, it becomes easier. That couldn’t be further from the truth. There are fleeting moments of happiness. Of light. But they burn quickly like candles. The scent lingers for some time. But it doesn’t last. All that is left is a falsified memory of what you think once permeated the air. A fabricated truth. We don’t remember the exact aroma. We remember what we wanted it to smell like. Your Fresh Cut Lilacs candle no longer smells like freshly cut lilacs. It never will again.

I’ve been here before. I remember the first time. Your words cut deep but I justified them. “He’s right. You’re crazy. He’s right.” I convinced myself of this. I was small and my voice had been quieted by yours. I held on though. No one will ever put up with you. You are lucky to have me.

Your words echoed. They haunted me. I believed them. And so I stayed. I followed you. I sacrificed everything for you. And in the end, I lost it all. But it was worth it, right? I am incapable of being loved anyway. I should be grateful I was loved at all.

It wasn’t just you though. It was him. And the one that followed him. And all of them to come.

A girl who once possessed such an incredible imagination, was granted the ability to escape to a magical place. She could smile here. She felt loved here. Beautiful.  Thoughts of white picket fences and sundresses under blue skies didn’t seem so far out of reach. Now, I can’t even remember that place. I close my eyes and I see nothing but darkness.

You are crazy. I don’t know what you’re capable of anymore. I thought I knew you.

You DO know me. This is me. You promised you’d love me. Imperfections and all. But it’s okay, you’re right. I must be crazy.

Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me.

How could I not? How could you ask that of me? I love you. But it’s okay, you’re right. I am deserving of this cruelty. Is it even cruel though if it is justified?

You are two different people. And I never know which one I’m going to get. That’s psychotic.

I thought I knew who I was. I don’t. Should I thank you for reminding me of how damaged I am? It hurts so badly. But it’s okay, you’re right.

I don’t think you want to change. I think deep down you like the pain and it’s easier to just say fuck it rather than face the challenges.

Am I weak? I have changed. I’ve sacrificed so much. I so badly want you to be wrong. But it’s okay, you’re right.

You told me I wouldn’t be okay without you. You told me it would be hard to leave me because you would worry too much. I know it’s not out of kindness, or of you caring about my wellbeing. You would worry because you know you’re not capable of bearing the weight of such a guilty conscious.

I told you I would be fine. I told you I’m strong. I lied. I didn’t know I was lying at the time. My fantastical imagination convinced me otherwise. But it’s okay, you’re right.

I know you wanted to love me. Perhaps you just wanted to save me. You always boasted about how wonderful it is to be the person in the relationship that has their shit together. I made myself entirely vulnerable. I made an incision in my chest and I let it bleed. No bandaids. No masking my emotions. I thought this time it would be different. I thought that together we could grow. You’re just another person to remind me of the worthless girl I am. Incapable of being loved. But it’s okay, you are right.

Maybe that is why I am still holding on. The words you say cut like daggers. The pain I feel is nearly unbearable. But I can’t leave. It will happen again. I am a vacant room with visitors that come and go. My welcoming, neon OPEN sign might be alluring initially, but the visitors leave. They don’t come back. And here I wait, for the next one to stay. They won’t for long.

But it’s okay, you are right.

I guess you don’t know me as well as you thought you did.”

WOAH-GASP-THAT WAS A LOT. Maybe too heavy? Nah. I wrote this lovely little piece about series of boys who broke my heart (and we will leave it at that). These are things that I heard. And these were things that I internalized. For so long. Too long. Clearly, I was in a very dark place at the time I had written this. I had never felt smaller.

I am so fucking happy to be able to say that I am no longer stuck. At one point, I had accepted that this was my identity forever. A girl incapable of love. A girl undeserving of love. I can’t imagine having a little girl who feels as if she doesn’t deserve to be loved. If I one day have a daughter, I will remind her every day of her worth. I will make SURE that she loves herself. Every part of herself.

This process of growth isn’t linear. I have days where I feel like I’m losing myself all over again. These little emotional relapses. But because I have the ability to now identify them as cruel and false, I can control my emotional reaction to them. I am learning to say no. I am learning to look at myself in the mirror when I get out of the shower instead of running to the next room to quickly dress myself. I’m learning to love my love handles. I’m learning to praise myself. I’m learning to prioritize myself. I am learning to stop being so fucking apologetic. I’m learning to stop trying to control every detail of life.

I am learning to love myself.

For whoever this entry resonates with:

I hope you find courage when reading this. I hope you feel less alone. I hope you apologize to yourself for being so hard on yourself when you slept with someone after the first date. I hope you tell yourself you are beautiful. I hope the people around you remind you that you are beautiful. I hope you feel beautiful. I hope you find someone who gives you all of the love you deserve. I hope you stop blaming yourself for letting him touch you when you weren’t even conscious. I hope you eat that cake without feeling guilty. I hope you drink wine and smile at the messages on the wrappers of dove chocolate. I hope you have days without makeup. I hope you wear heels even if you look like a drunken bird when you walk. I hope you can laugh at yourself. I hope you find someone that shares the same sense of humor with you. I hope you fall in love with someone. But above all else…I hope you fall in love with yourself.

It’s the first day of April…which means it’s April Fool’s Day…and can you fucking believe I wrote such a heavy piece?! Where is the dark and satirical sense of humor?

But It’s the first day of April…which means it’s the perfect day to begin your journey of self-love. Do it. Starting…..

NOW!

lil hidden message in here to see who actually peeps the blog ~ if you’re seeing this, DM me on instagram saying “I saw it” ❤

Crab legs and fights with the ex

Have you tried that “Medicine Ball” drink off the secret Starbucks menu? (I sound like a pre-teen girl who was just granted permission to walk around the mall with her friends and no adult supervision). Anyway. It’s fucking phenomenal. A blend of teas topped off with steamed lemonade?! Genius. No. This is not an #ad…this is a desperate attempt to get someone to bring me one STAT.

Today sucks.Simple as that. I feel like I’ve been nursing a “cold” for the past month. Have you seen those memes that talk about how you don’t appreciate your nose until it’s completely clogged and you can only breathe out of your mouth? I’ve never related more. As I sit here and type this, I sound like an overweight man in his late 50s who just climbed a single flight of stairs but is truly on the verge of a very serious heart attack. I can’t freaking breathe!

It’s beautiful outside. So I’ve been told. I woke up to a FaceTime call from my lovely mother… “Hi Sweetheart! I’m driving home in Mary’s Tesla we were up ALL night at the concert. So fun. We are so hungover but look at what we got?!” (She points to a Bacon, egg, and gouda breakfast sandwich from Starbucks). “It’s beautiful outside! Get out of bed.” I love my mother to death, but that call might have perpetuated my lingering combination of self-diagnosed depression and seasonal sickness (or very serious oncoming heart attack).

She’s right. I should be outside. I should be basking in the sunshine on this “warm” Chicago day. (It’s 42 degrees for those of you who are curious). That’s what warmth looks like here.

I had a dreadful nightmare that it was my college graduation and everything went awry. The three prominent things that lingered after the dream: we were running late and I didn’t get a single photo, there was a buffet with old crab legs and stale bagels, and my (first) ex and I fought the entire night. Per fucking usual. (I have the luxury of throwing as much shade as I’d like considering he has me blocked on every social media platform). Honestly…this isn’t too far off from my real-life college graduation. Although, there were no crab legs. Old or not…those would have been a nice touch. My youngest brother ended up getting food poisoning anyway. I’m sure he would have rather it been from crab than a dive bar burger.

Anyway, if there are any folks out there with a speciality in dream analysis, please let me know what old crab legs, the lack of photos, and a fight with my ex might mean.

I don’t have anything else to say currently. I mostly wanted to complain…and until I get a cat (or a lizard), I have no one else to verbally express my emotions to. (Kidding. Kind of). So in sum, the takeaway from this entry…please send over the delicious tea drink from S-Bux.

Over and out.