Life According to Dani

She's Awkward. She's Clueless. She's Just Trying to Survive.

Life According to Dani

Life is a funny thing. You think you’re supposed to grow up and know exactly what you want to do with the rest of it. Pick that one thing that you were “meant for,” go to school, do it, and live happily ever after. Yet here I sit, 24 years old, with more college credit hours than a bachelor’s degree requires, yet nothing to show for it. I once thought life was going to be a lot easier than this. What about the people who are good at more than one thing? Or see themselves succeeding in multiple areas? I guess that explains why I sit here, in my little apartment that I wouldn’t even be able to afford without a roommate, writing blogs instead of stressing about what the next week at work will be like and how I’m going to make it to the coveted top of that ladder. Sounds dreadful when you say it like that…I’d almost kill to be there.

I didn’t see this for myself. I thought for sure I would be a successful by-the-book, career-driven individual who just beat that woman down the hall for the anticipated promotion yesterday! Maybe I’d still be here writing, but it’d be in a cluttered house with a baby crying over the daunting pressure of having to go to sleep (life’s tough!). I most definitely did not think I would be sitting here, divorced, eating day-old cold pizza, watching my cat obsessively clean himself, willing the next two weeks to pass by so I can get my next paycheck, and wondering when and how I will ever graduate. No, I can honestly say this is not the life I imagined, but hey, it’s the one I asked for, and I have no qualms with taking that responsibility, as much of a choke in the throat it is to admit. Sure I’m in school, and I hear that’s the best first step; but honestly I don’t even know if I really want to follow the path on which it has me. Healthcare Administration. Granted it is logical for me. Office redundancy and paperwork excite me too much to not consider myself a total nerd – even as I type this, I can’t wait to go back and proofread it! And any profession in the medical field is always a good idea…right? But what about my other dreams? Beauty school would bring me into the field of aesthetics, something I’ve craved for some time now. Heaven forbid I go to a school that doesn’t master in the academic arts.

And then there’s this…writing. I could do it all day. I guess that’s why I’m here now. I’ve always been a great writer. It just comes naturally I suppose. I even had the honor of reading a paper I wrote my third semester in college at a seminar. I still remember hearing my teacher explain the “99” at the top of the piece that I burdened over for months: “It’s just that there wasn’t a thing wrong in the entire paper, but there is no such thing as a perfect paper, so I had to give you a 99.” Perfect. Exactly something a perfectionist with rampant OCD wants to hear. Nonetheless, it was better than anyone else’s, so take the prize I shall!

Of course, if I change my mind now, I will just be in school longer, meaning that pile of student loans will only continue to increase until I’m drowning in debt, and, at this rate, have nothing to show for it. It’s hard knowing what route to take, even my prayers haven’t gotten me there yet. Half of me feels that there must be something wrong with me to still be living like a college student, an “adult in the making,” if you will. The other half of me is telling me to take my time and chase my dreams, just as long as I figure out what they are already! Right now I’m not really sure about anything, except that my roommate is definitely not buying the next round of toilet paper (why did I not go the store today!) as per our apparently understood and unspoken agreement when I signed the lease. It must have been hidden in the same clause that spelled out how she also will not be cleaning the sink that she spills makeup in on a daily basis or empty uneaten food into the trash from her dishes before putting them in the dishwasher (that’s a fun surprise to unload).

And then there’s my cat. He is the only reason I can manage to sit around in this apartment alone for as long as I do. His day is pretty predictable. Most of it includes one of three things: tormenting and/or staring (with impressive patience) at my two birds, and no doubt wondering how he could ever get his little paw into their cage; sitting on his special stool by the window watching all the activity outside with interrupting moments of what I like to call “freak outs” where he rubs on the window with such fervor I think he believes he may actually make it through to catch whatever has caught his eye (an activity he is currently engrossed in); and finally, pouncing on my legs as I go about my business all day in an attempt to get me to chase him. He thinks it’s a game; I think I may actually drop-kick him one of these days, but, hey, “fun” is relative, right? Can’t blame the kid for being a cat; I just wished he realized I wasn’t one! Our relationship is complicated; it’s a healthy balance of lovable cuddles and assassination attempts (especially when I’m sleeping).

So between my job, my cat, and my unforeseeable future, my life is not all that exciting. Don’t get me wrong! I have lots of friends and great memories, but let’s face it, at the end of the day I’m still sitting alone in front of my computer in an attempt to tell people (maybe some of them strangers) about what life looks life from my perspective. All I think is that if I can make my semi-mundane life seem comical or at least entertaining, maybe I can brighten someone’s day who thinks the same thing about theirs. And maybe I won’t lose this passion for writing that has always engulfed my very essence.

So here goes nothing. I’m so curious to see where this new adventure will lead. Maybe together we can figure out this thing we call life, but until then, here’s to “life” according to Dani.

P.s. I’m Dani. 😉

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Just A Hunk, A Hunk of Burning…Heart

Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame. You give fooooood…a bad name! 

Catchy? Well, it’s just about how I’m feeling right now and every night for the past 2 weeks. Not sure what I’m talking about yet? Reflux esophagitis. You might know it as heartburn. I like to call it the silent killer. If I’m not going to die from this, it sure feels like it in the moment.

I guess you could say I spent the majority of my life spoiled, considering I’ve never dealt with something like this before. It’s something that decided to happen out of pure haphazardness one night and hasn’t seemed to want to go away since. I mean, at least when my other bodily visitor (or more like invader) comes to stay, she’s gone by the end of the week. I’m pretty sure this fella has unpacked his most valuable possessions and even made permanent modifications to what should have been his temporary and unwelcoming home. Yes, he’s moved in for good. And no amount of antacids have seemed to thwart his plans to inconvenience my life. Well played, sir.

If you’re as curious as I, you might think to yourself, “Gee, Dani, could you tell us what heartburn really is?” Why, I sure can, my good friend! I owe that ability to my crippling friend, Anxiety, that urges me to read every WebMD article I can possibly find on every symptom I’ve ever had. Naturally, this wouldn’t be any different. If you’ve ever watched a superhero movie, you know that often a vat of acid tends to be laying around and somehow contributes to our protagonist’s life-changing, super-power yielding, initial moment of rebirth. It turns out, that same acid lives in our bodies! OK, maybe not the same, but for dramatics sake, let’s just pretend. Where was I? Oh, right! So basically, I guess we’re all just a stomach-juice moment away from becoming superheroes ourselves. Of course, the rest of our regular mortal bodies are protected by the lining of the stomach. And now you’re starting to realize how tough that stuff must be!

I know what you’re thinking at this point. But acid in my stomach doesn’t explain the burning sensation throughout the rest of my throat and esophagus leading up to my mouth.  Fair point, so how does it get there? It turns out there’s a little flap at the entrance to your stomach called the lower esophageal sphincter. If you’re familiar with the inner-workings of fart production, you’ve heard the term sphincter before. (I told you, I like to know what my body is up to). This is a different muscle – obviously – but suffice it to say my stomach fart-muscle is not really good at its job. It’s designed to open and let food in, then close before the food can come back out in the form of burning hot superhero-causing acid. Like an automatic door. Mine seems to be more like a revolving door. Sure we’ll let anything on in, but also anything can come right back out. Not cool, sphincter, not cool. Naturally, my solution was to place a guard at the door. A bouncer, if you will, to monitor this entire situation. His name is Gaviscon (found at your friendly neighborhood Walmart), and he is very evidently on strike and not doing a damn thing about my recurring perpetrator. Am I starting to sound like the scripting of a new Osmosis Jones movies yet?

As with any negative life-changes, I tend to react with my 3-W protocol. Whine, Worry, Write. You can tell which phase I’m in now, can’t you? But I can’t help but talk about it! While heartburn isn’t the worst thing to be stricken with, it’s completely changed how I do things that before I never had to think about. I have to sleep on my right side in order to get any kind of satisfactory rest. It turns out when you sleep on the right side, the acid falls to the side of your stomach that’s away from the esophagus, making it much harder to travel up there. Last night I made the foolish mistake of rolling onto my left side in my sleep. This kind of slumber ambulation is very much not allowed – a rule I quickly learned after waking up suddenly in a short-of-breath manner due to the fact my body managed to choke itself on it’s own indigestion. To make it even better, I got to spend the next ten minutes over the toilet, not really convinced I needed to puke, but also super confused as to what was even happening (remember, I was in a dead sleep) and deciding not to take any risks.

I also can’t eat certain foods anymore, or so my mother has told me. So far I’ve experienced this new malady regardless of what I’ve eaten. So I guess I’m just not allowed to eat now. Oh, you get heartburn now? Yeah, you can’t eat. Anymore. Ever again. You really don’t consider how much you take certain foods for granted until eating them causes your insides to want to be on your outsides. I have never looked at ketchup so long before putting it in my face just thinking, Is it worth it? Apparently I still think it’s worth it. Cut to a couple hours later when I’m on the floor chugging milk (I hear that helps?) and popping antacids like M&Ms, screaming, “Never again! Remove all the ketchup!” Hindsight and all that.

I’ve been told it sometimes can happen when you get older, sometimes when you get paunchier (I don’t use the F-word), both of which have happened to me. At this rate, who even knows who the real culprit is. I also read that a lot of exercise can be a contributing factor, so at least I can rule out that one. I wouldn’t exactly say excessively working out is really a problem for me. (Check out Getting a (Love)-Handle on Life). So I guess this is the part where I have to decide that the diet starts now, accept my fate that I’m just getting old, or find some sort of compromising area in the middle. The ironic thing is if I start working out in order to lose weight, I could actually worsen my heartburn frequency for the time being. Life is funny and backwards like that. So what’s a girl to do? My best bet right now is to get up, get in shape, eat the right foods, and pay more attention to those Nexium commercials on TV. With any luck , this period of my life won’t last forever. But until then, I’m just going to whine a little more, write a little longer, and maybe try to worry a little less. After all, it’s just a little heartburn.


P.s. If you want to read more about my newfound issues with heartburn and other weird things that happen when you get old, go to How You Know You’re Becoming An Adult  next!

How You Know You’re Becoming An Adult

Now I know what many of you may be thinking. You’re 27; you’ve been an adult for 9 years now. I beg to differ. I understand society decided that 18 marks the beginning of adulthood, but they could not be more wrong. Allow me to explain.

The moment you graduate high school you’re an adult, right? Wrong. You have never experienced the world. In fact, until you make it through college, you’re still mostly sheltered from the harsh realities of the real world. That means up until you make it through your early twenties, you’re really just a larger child that’s been granted more responsibilities and freedom to make – all too often irresponsible – decisions. Your mid-twenties are marked by an era where you realize that your childhood is on the brink of extinction. It is here that you must start to really pull your life together and figure out where you’re headed. And then there’s the late twenties. These last couple years are what I like to call the Panic Years. This is your last chance to live out your childhood dreams. Adulthood is right around the corner, and (if you’re anything like me) you realize that you are not prepared for it AT ALL. You’ve had ten years to prepare for this, but decided instead to make rash financial decisions, consume an ungodly amount of alcohol, and throw away the prospect of ever actually settling into a meaningful lasting relationship with someone. Cue the panic. You start to feel like this is your last hope to lock down love, a career, and any other semblance of a stable life. These last 3 years of your twenties are critical if you’re ever going to survive. Because once 30 hits, that’s the end game. No more do-overs, no more oopsies. It’s make it or break it.

With all that being said, I have found myself right in the crux of becoming an adult. And let me tell you, I’m not a fan. No one ever told me that so much would change. OK, OK, so they probably did and I didn’t listen. So here are 10 ways you know you’re becoming an adult.

  1. Heartburn. What in the actual…!? So one day you just wake up and your body decides it’s going to rebel every time you eat something? I still, for the life of me, haven’t discovered what initiates this whole whirlwind of fire that grows in my stomach and keeps me awake at all hours of the night. I remember my parents complaining about heartburn when I was growing up. I always thought to myself, I’m sure glad I don’t have this disease! (And yes, back then I thought it was a disease they had, don’t judge.) I had no idea it was something that just developed over time. I was not prepared for this at all.
  2. Metabolism is a joke. I would really like to understand how I spent my entire college years eating nothing but Taco Bell all day every day, and now if I so much as look at a fast food sign, I gain 5 pounds. I was raised on Oreos, Hostess cakes, and mac ‘n cheese. And suddenly I’m not allowed to eat like that anymore if I have any hope of losing this belly flab? What a cruel joke!
  3. Second puberty. Remember when you had acne, and your mom would tell you it’s not forever? One day it’ll pass! Then comes that glorious day when you escape the hellish journey through puberty you’ve been stuck in for a solid 5 years. Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I’m free at last! So you chuck all your acne creams, washes, and scrubs. It’s all finally behind you. That’s what you think. Then you hit second puberty and have to do it all over again. Haven’t I suffered enough!? There’s nothing but enlarged pores, pimples, and endless face masks in my foreseeable future. (Click here to read more about the horrors of second puberty.)
  4. Pain. Always. No wonder grown-ups always have plenty of Aleve on hand. If it’s not my back, it’s my knee. If it’s not my knee, it’s my ankle, or leg, or neck. And the list goes on and on. I’m finally at that point where I can’t really make it more than two weeks without needing to see my chiropractor.  Remember when health insurance was just a thing you didn’t understand or ever use? Those were the glory days!
  5. You can’t stay awake on you’re own. There’s a reason old people drink so much coffee. I’m convinced the human body just gives up trying to be awake after a certain age. I have never taken so many naps in all my life. And try going to a bar at this age and making it through the night! I find myself looking around all the younger kids feeling so jealous while I finish up my second beer and call it quits.
  6. Allergies are a thing now. I have never, EVER, had allergies until I hit my late twenties. So I managed to make it 20+ years with no problem being outside, and now being around too many flowers make my body attack itself? I really will never understand this one. So now I spend an entire season with watery eyes, itchy nose and throat, and plain old misery. Cool, thanks, nature!
  7. Your taste in TV changes. I could watch documentaries and crime TV for hours. And I am not exaggerating when I say that one bit. My TV doesn’t really ever leave the Justice Network. I don’t know what it is about the riveting court case of Michael Peterson (check out The Staircase on Netflix!) or the controversy of orcas in captivity (Blackfish), but I could watch them for hours. I used to hate when I’d go to my grandma’s house and all she wanted to watch was Judge Judy. I get it now. I totally get it.
  8. You actually want to do house chores. The other day I pulled my laundry out of the dryer, sat on the couch, turned on some TV, and began folding. What happened to the good ol’ days when I would throw the clothes basket in the corner of my room and fish my outfits for the next two weeks out of that as needed? While I still slack from time to time, I have definitely noticed my ambition to clean and keep things clean has improved.
  9. Gifts have changed. I used to always ask for things like beauty products, toys, or collectibles. Now my Christmas list consists of back support pillows, furniture, or kitchen gadgets. You should have seen how thrilled I was the day I had finally saved up enough money to buy my new vacuum. Granted I still enjoy my video games and Marvel movie collection, but some things will never change.
  10. You realize you’re becoming your mother. Need I say more? Fight it all you want, but really you’re just like her. And then you realize that she was your age when she had you, and you can’t even keep a plant alive for more than three days. Times sure have changed, but you know if she could do it, so can you. Welcome to adulthood.

6 Reasons Why Being Sick Is Way Worse When You’re An Adult

Sick in bed.  I figure this is as good a time as any to write a new post. What else am I going to do besides incessantly whining to no avail. They call it streptococcal pharyngitis. Well, the fancy doctors do anyways. Most people call it Strep Throat. I call it the Grim Reaper. I’m fairly confident the way this works out is my throat rots out of my face and then I die. That’s sure as hell what it feels like anyways. The worst part is being alone. I know I’m supposed to be an adult by now, but usually when this happens I call my mom, whimpering like a pitiful fool, and then she brings me buckets of Jell-O (her cure to any ailment). But I’ve moved away since then. So I have no one to bring me any Jell-O, meaning my future is almost certainly bleak.

I’ve determined being sick when you’re an adult is way worse than it is when you’re a kid. Every time I start to get sick I think to myself, You’ll be fine! You’re a grown-up now. You can muster through this; no illness can drag you down! And then reality slaps me in the face and I realize I don’t stand a chance. So instead, I retreat to the comfort of my bed and think about who and what I should include in my soon-to-be-needed will. Just kidding, I don’t actually have anything worth doling out anyways. Did I mention this seems bleak?

So instead I started coming up with a list of differences between being a sick adult and a sick child. This is what I found:

1. Laying in bed isn’t quite as relaxing as it used to be. As a kid you get to skip school, lay in bed, and eat Jell-O. (I know, I know, I’m really hung up on this Jell-O business!) Most of the time Dad would bring me a huge cup of orange Gatorade. And that was the extent of his “curing” me. “Just drink some Gatorade and get up and do work, that’s how you start to feel better!” I never had a TV growing up, so Mom would usually let me take a sleeping bag into the living room. And there I would lay, with my Jell-O, orange Gatorade, and a VHS of 4 or 5 recorded movies that Mom had taped from the Disney Channel. Cinderella, The Aristocats, and The Rescuers Down Under were always my first choices.

Being stuck in bed all day as an adult isn’t quite as relaxing. Instead I get to lay here and worry about all my adult responsibilities. How may hours of work am I missing, and how much money does that add up to that I won’t have on this next paycheck? When am I going to get this laundry and these dishes done now? Do I really need to get up to feed the cats? Why can’t the cats feed themselves!? Sure, I can still watch Disney cartoons back to back all day, so there’s that. It doesn’t quite drown out all the worry, but it’s the one perk I’ll hold onto for now!

2. There isn’t anyone at your beck and call anymore. When you’re young you have your Mom, willing to come running anytime you start crying for help. And usually for what? Just to whine and say, “I don’t feel good!” (As if that’s news to her!) But she came running every time anyways. Now who do I have? The cats. Who could care less. Instead, they spend the whole day using me as their wrestling mat, or bed, or whatever else they deem fitting.  My whine and cry hasn’t changed a bit, but this time there’s no one around to hear it, so it’s not nearly as satisfying. So instead I just wail at the ceiling, which is a prompt indication that it’s petting time for the cats apparently. This isn’t going at all how I imagined it.

3. Taking medicine isn’t as tasty as it used to be. So I’m fully aware that I might be alone in this, but there were a lot of liquid medicines I took growing up that I thought were delicious. There were some I couldn’t stand to stomach, but most I enjoyed. Robitussin was always a plus for me. And then there was this prescribed stuff that we would get from the pediatrician’s office. To this day I have no clue what it was, but man was it good! Pepto-Bismol was the one I really couldn’t handle. And I still gag a little every time I have to take it now. But as an adult, medicine is mostly just pills. So not only do you have a throat that’s quite literally (ok, metaphorically) on fire, but now you have to swallow these giant pills! Granted, I could always buy the liquid version if I wanted, but would the social stigma be worth it? You’re an adult now. You take pills. This is what adulting means!

4. Calling into work is way worse than missing school. At least when I was a kid my mom did all the dirty work for me. She’d call down to the school and let them know I wasn’t going to be in that day. Then she’d write me a note that I would have to bring to the office the next day, and voila! All is fine. Now I have to do it all. All by myself! The ridiculously guilty feeling that accompanies every call-in to work might be worse than the illness itself. My heart is racing the entire time the phone rings, and then I spend a couple minutes blabbering about how I’m so sorry and offering to sacrifice my heart to the work gods to make up for it. And you always know there’s a 50/50 shot they don’t believe you. And you can’t even blame them because that one girl in accounting has cried wolf one too many times. So then you return to work like, “Here’s a note from the doctor’s office, and my cats, and myself (a few of those), and the neighbor across the street, and (just for good measure) the woman in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Also here’s my blood oath that I will work this weekend to make up for it, my firstborn child, and the kitchen sink.” Yup, that should do it.

5. The bathroom is not the same.  I remember camping out in the bathroom as a child. It was Mom’s clever way of making sure I didn’t miss the toilet when the time arose. I remember laying my head on the cold, tiled floor. It always made me feel better when that fever was beginning to be a bit too much for me to handle. Now I couldn’t even fit in the small crevice between the bathroom door and the toilet if I wanted to. I’d be mostly stretched out into the kitchen with the bottom half of my legs reaching into the bathroom, definitely looking like a freshly-murdered corpse. Furthermore, nothing on this earth could drive me to put my face on the bathroom floor. I don’t care how cold that tile is! I guess they’re right when they say ignorance is bliss.

6. You don’t have anyone to take you to the doctor. So when you’re a kid, you’re mom calls down to the local pediatrician’s office, gets you an appointment, and then loads your sick butt in the car and lugs you down to the miracle worker. This was something I seriously took for granted until I became an adult and realized that…wait for it…you have to drive yourself to the doctor’s office! What in the hell kind of twisted life prank is this!? And then, to make matters worse, you have to drive yourself to the pharmacy too! I’m sick. I need a chauffeur. The next Uber-like invention needs to consist of people just toting around adults who need adultier adults to doctors’ offices and pharmacies.

And there you have it! Just another reason that growing up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Life’s funny like that I guess. You think you’re ready to be an adult and don’t need your parents anymore. And then you get sick with no Jell-O. Well played, universe, well played!

Home, Sweet (Kentucky), Home

I can’t begin to tell you how much has changed. Last time we were here, I was broadcasting from Tennessee. Now I get to call Kentucky home, and I couldn’t be happier. What a whirlwind of events this entire experience has become! I’ve spent most of my life hopping from one annual apartment lease to another, but at least they were all in the same region. Moving to a completely new state is an altogether different experience. It’s been a couple months and I’m finally to the point where I’ve almost completely nested into my studio apartment. Just a few modifications here and there, and I’ll be all settled in!

I think the driving has been the hardest adjustment for me. Never in my life have I seen such a dizzy of cars in such a hurry to get anywhere. I’m starting to learn the way of the land. Swerving between lanes if you plan on getting anywhere successfully is absolutely necessary. No one here apparently knows where they’re originally going when they first embark and hit the road. So my entire drive to work consists of strangers carelessly swerving across three lanes of traffic in a desperate attempt to turn onto the road they’ve almost certainly missed. Did you not know that turn was coming up? I mean, I have an excuse because Siri insists on telling me where my turn is only after I’ve made it halfway through the intersection, causing me to cut the wheel in all hopes that I won’t have to turn around and try again. Maybe everyone here is driving to and fro for the very first time, like me. What a sight. Lexington – where everyone is from not here and has no clue how to get to where they need to be. Imagine every road trip as if you’ve never seen that road before! That’s basically what it feels like.

And then there’s the whole charade of having to meet new people. My first idea was to download a couple of “meeting” apps (I refuse to call them dating apps), like Tinder and Bumble. That plan was cut abruptly when I accidentally caught the unintentional attention of a girl looking to meet women for far different reasons than I. Then there was that whole fiasco of matching two men on Tinder, only to find out they were roommates. Awkward, much? The activities for the day – delete Bumble and Tinder. My next plan of action was to sit alone at a bar and proceed to push myself on strangers until someone seemed interested. Will you be my friend!? (That’s not weird, right?) Geez, could I be more desperate? That plan was also quickly foiled when I accidentally insulted a girl by telling her she was pretty because she looked like Amy Schumer. She did not think Amy Schumer is pretty so you can imagine how that turned out. Needless to say, in a couple months’ time, I’ve managed to accidentally trick someone into thinking I’m gay, accidentally almost get myself in the middle of an awkward roommate love triangle, and accidentally tell a stranger to her face that she’s ugly. I’m not even surprised, really. That about sums up my luck with your basic human interaction, a skill which I undoubtedly have not yet and most assuredly never will master. I’ve instead settled on trying to make friends with all of my colleagues at work. That, so far, has seemed to work out to my benefit far beyond my other well-laid plans.

There is still so much I’ve yet to see here. Most of my time is spent in bed, at work, or running through the late night Taco Bell window. I’m finally within a reasonable driving distance to Taco Bell! I’m not saying that’s why I chose this apartment, but I won’t lie and say that it isn’t my favorite perk either. I did manage to spend a day at the mall. On the one hand it was amazing…because Mall. On the other hand, it was terror-ridden. Never have I seen so many people in one public place! I mean sure, maybe if it’s the day before Christmas, but just a regular weekend in April!? The flood of panic that washed over me when I first opened the doors to enter through the food court (classic Dani, I know) gripped me for only a half second, but really it felt like a good few minutes. My mind told me to panic and turn around. You can do this online. This is the 21st century after all! But I knew the euphoria of shopping would replace my sudden outburst of anxiety, so I pushed through. Six hours later, I was decked out, broke, and almost convinced that my feet might fall off before I made it back home. Signs of a successful shopping trip at its finest!

I do love the feeling of accepting that this place is my home now. When I first moved here, I’d say “I’m going to my apartment.” Now I say, “I’m going home.” All the wonder and comfort that one word can bring. It most obviously became my home the day I realized my entire fridge was littered with small toy mice trapped beneath it. Yup that’s definitely my house! Nothing like a fur child that likes to torture himself by rocketing his only toys to the one unreachable end of his entire kingdom.  My apartment is perfect. Just enough for everything that I need. And Toulouse has made it quite clear that he has sufficient room for all his activities. What a relief knowing he approves! I’ve managed to find room for all my furniture, belongings, and five pets in this less-than-one-bedroom abode. Yes, I said five. And no, I’m not crazy. Trust me, it works. Toulouse’s newest friend is his pet snake. He will sit for hours on my bedside table, looking up to the terrarium closely stationed nearby with a mixture of pure awe and curiosity. Every morning he wakes me up, then saunters over to that spot to throw some shrill cries at the snake as well. That’s my Toulouse for you – everyone’s morning rooster. He’s quite a handsome addition to the family, but teaching Toulouse the difference between toy, food, and friend is more challenging than you might think. Or at least more challenging than I originally thought. I’ve mostly got him comfortable enough to only pet the snake with his front paws. Which is really a huge improvement from the Let’s-see-if-I-can-fit-this-whole-thing-into-my-mouth phase. Watching him try so desperately hard to find some semblance of self control is actually painful. There he sits, eyes dilated, tail in twitching order, and every muscle fiber telling him to launch an attack. He doesn’t, but, oh, does he want to! Ocho (named appropriately so for his 8-shaped markings) doesn’t even mind a bit either. He’s taken a swift paw batting to the face a few times with absolutely no recoil. They are an odd pair, but somehow they make it work.

It’s no surprise at how blessed and fortunate I feel to have found my home. Calling it my forever home still feels like a work in progress, but progress nonetheless. Every day is like a brand new adventure, with somewhere new to be discovered. I find solace in that unknown. It’s like there are so many doors ahead of me, and I’ve got all the time I need to explore each and every one. And I’m not disappointed with all I’ve found so far!

Help Wanted

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s 2017! What is happening; is this real life? They say time flies by even more quickly after you have kids – ’nuff said, never having kids. I don’t know about you, but it already flies by at an unbelievable rate. I don’t need something coming into my life and making that fate even worse! I rang in the new year with my brand new 2017 calendar entitled (wait for it)…”Cat Lady.” As if I’m not already weird and alone enough as it is, just a little insurance that this whole “die single and surrounded by cats” prophecy finds its inevitable fulfillment. Gotta make sure I keep up this pattern; new year, new you? Nope, not for me. More like new year, let’s make sure everything stays exactly the same as it always has or else my anxiety might try to murder me. Yay for mantras!

And yet amidst my sure realization that change is my worst nightmare, I have decided to change my entire life by moving to a completely new state alone (with Toulouse of course), start a new job, and start a new life. Ok, maybe I am a bit crazy. But in all seriousness and inevitable terror aside, I’m looking forward to starting afresh, seeing a new part of the world, and learning how to drive in the chaos that a big city life brings with it. If any of my recent trips for apartment hunting and job interviewing has taught me anything, it’s that people in actual cities (unlike podunk towns they blasphemously call cities where I currently live) drive with more aggression than I possibly have ever seen in my life. I had come to the point where I didn’t even regard the surmounting honks behind me anymore; nor do I still have any idea what on this blessed Earth I was doing wrong. Side note, slowing down to turn into a parking lot is a sure crime; instead, you should cut the wheel and hope for the best.

But living in a new city isn’t exactly the struggle that I’m currently facing (after all, I’m not there yet). Right now my sleepless night and endless worries circulate around the challenge of actually getting there in the first place. I have no clue how I’m ever going to get all this furniture moved or tow the trailer. This is one of those moments when I realize being an independent woman isn’t all as cracked up as it’s meant to be. Please don’t make me admit I need a man. Maybe I’ll just become a genius scientist, invent a formula, and go all she-hulk. Yup, that sounds more realistic than breaking down these egotistical, feminist walls of mine and asking for help.

Why do we have such a hard time asking for help? Humanity is designed in such an elaborate way so we don’t have to go it alone to survive. We are social creatures with an integrated and elaborate communication system. We have survived by defeating the largest obstacles through the fundamental values of teamwork. Yet, for some reason, breaking down and asking for help can sometimes feel like the worst obstacle we face. There is some hidden drive within ourselves to prove to the world that we can overcome anything all on our own. But why? Is it some twisted subconscious desire to reach that level of godliness? The ancient Greeks aspired to be as close to their all-powerful gods as possible; even so far as to attempt to prove they were strong enough without them.

Maybe it’s not a fear of some measurable weakness at all. Maybe we have scared ourselves into appearing “too needy.” Maybe we fear that if we ask for a helping hand one too many times, we will be eternally marked as a parasite, too unwilling to help himself. I have even noticed the increase in phrases like, “Don’t be afraid to ask for help.” When did we become afraid to ask for help? Is it woven into our subconscious, or has some part of society conditioned us to be this way?

Perhaps even more daunting than moving the furniture is moving the Toulouse. Trapping myself in a car for eight hours with a creature who despises being trapped in a car for eight seconds. What a trip! I seriously, might never make it out alive. I have already begun the mental preparedness and strength I’m going to need to endure his vocal outcries of opposition and resentment. Talk about some “Jesus Take the Wheel.” I do plan on having him mildly sedated, but I’m not quite convinced it will make a huge difference for him just yet. I mean, the guy’s food is laced with tryptophan, he gets melatonin every night, and yet I still wake up to his wide-eyed furry excitement at 3 a.m. as he screeches and pounces on my head, convinced that I am to also be awake for this exciting midnight adventure. So really there’s no telling how this will go.

In light of my consternation of ever-so-coming events, I have blissfully spent the past week in a full-blown, relaxation stay-cation. I have never felt so lazy, achieved, and shameless all at the same time. And by achieved I mean that I fulfilled my mission of sleeping and eating as much as possible. I may have very well worn a permanent fixture into my mattress. Thank goodness for Netflix, sleep blindfolds, and delivery pizza. Sadly, all this glory comes to its end today. I’m heavy-hearted to let it go (that’s not too dramatic is it?) Maybe I’ll hold a funeral for my vacation – it’s life was short lived but made an impact on all those around it (well, just me, but you get the idea).  Wait, is this what being a housewife feels like? I think I may have very well just realized my destiny. And the search begins!

As I conclude this post and vacation, I see there is really a lot that is being concluded. I’m signing off to an entire year, to a place I’ve called home for fifteen years, and to a job in search of my career. So many doors are about to close, and so many others are inevitably going to open. The next time you hear from me will be from the great state of Kentucky. Here goes nothing.

Oh, and one more thing – HALP!

It’s Christmas!

Let me start by saying I am never awake this early if I don’t have to be. Granted I know if you’re reading this you have no idea how early it is, but trust me when I say it’s way too early for me. This of course is what I get for sleeping all day yesterday, but what better way to spend the day off? What’s worse than being wide awake at an ungodly hour, wanting to sleep, but not being able to because your brain is all “Enough is enough!”?

To clarify, it’s probably unjustified to call this an ‘ungodly hour,’ considering for most responsible, career-oriented adults this is a completely normal time to be awake. This is the part of the day when I should be dressed to the nines in my snazzy pant suit, pouring my husband his morning coffee while finishing packing lunches for us and our two kids who wave goodbye as they head out the front door to catch the bus. Quick pop kiss to the spouse while I grab my keys – about the only form of affection we have time for anymore – and then we’re both off to our dreaded eight-hour slave-away day that we both need to afford these cars and this house. The american dream life, right? No, thank you, I’ll pass. At least for now, anyways.

Instead you have me sitting here in my one-bedroom castle, calling this the ‘ungodly hour,’ and  most certainly not being responsible for making lunches for anyone but myself and my cat. OK, mostly just him, that’s what fast food is for, right? Speaking of the devil, Toulouse has decided to grace me with his presence while I write, making sure I hear every loud slurp he makes as he commences to lift his leg over his head (jealous! but impressed) and lick the crap out of his butthole (no pun intended). I’m realizing I really need to stop letting him lick me whenever he so chooses after witnessing this.

So while I’m still in shock that I am even conscious right now, much less the fact that I managed to cook myself a well-balanced, low-carb breakfast (ya, the whole ‘you need to lose weight’ speech I got from my doctor has forced me to take my diet on a turn for the worst…or better, depending on from which point of view you’re looking). So, in the spirit of a writer, naturally I write. Maybe getting all of my thoughts out of my head and into your hands will drain my brain enough to lull me back to a decent-length nap before I have to get back up and go to work.

It’s only one week until Christmas. I feel like it’s fair that I mention that in the true spirit of the time of year. I can’t believe it’s here already. I can’t believe that I can’t believe it’s here already. All through my childhood all I heard was, “When you get older you won’t think it’s a long time to wait for Christmas.” Well I guess I’ve officially made it to “older” because by golly it sure did fly by. Remember when life was easy and Christmas was the most anticipated time of year? Now all I can think of is how much money I don’t have that I need to spend on people who don’t even tell me what they want. What kind of twisted turnaround is this!? We should really get more of a warning of how much adulthood is going to suck. OK OK, in all fairness I guess I did hear my whole life how good I had it, but I was too innocent back to then to know what it meant. I get it now. I’d give almost anything to be forced into several naps a day. Talk about not realizing something until it’s too late.

What amazes me even more is that this time next year, I’ll be celebrating the holiday season in a completely different state! It will be the first time in 26 years that I will be spending a holiday away from my family. In all reality, I will more than likely be trekking back home to spend them with my family, but still, the fact that I will have to travel for a holiday is kind of surreal. There is a whole genre of movies focused around people coming home for the holidays, and now I get to be a part of that world. I’m not going to lie, it kind of makes me feel even more adult-y. Isn’t that sort of what being an adult is – moving away and then finding the money to come back 2-3 times a year? Maybe I’m wrong, but Hollywood has me convinced. This baby bird is finally leaving the nest. Oh, and if you are clueless about that which I’m talking, surprise! I’m moving to Kentucky in only 2 months! (Guess what my blog post in February is going to be about, wink wink.)

Imminent change aside, I’ve decided to focus on the here and now until then. Like, how am I going to afford presents for Christmas here and now? How am I going to keep Toulouse off the bed while I’m trying to make it here and now? How will I ever survive another 12-hour work day here and now?  How am I going to stay warm when I brave the freezing cold temperatures of the outside world here and now? Boy, do I hate winter. When I looked outside this morning there was even frost resting on every surface it could seem to find. Gross. I hate all of it – the snow, the bundling up, the freezing your butt off anyways, the hats and scarves, the sweaters that indeed make you sweat but you have no choice because otherwise you’ll die of hypothermia because winter is one giant paradox! I am certainly not one of those heinous people you’ll hear whining, “It’s too hot, I can’t wait for winter to get here.” Those people deserve to live in everlasting winter. Take it all, I’ll be fine never seeing Jack Frost’s ugly mug. Two heaters and five blankets later, I’m still shivering. Will the atrocity never end!? Bears have it figured out; why can’t we just hibernate all winter?

Speaking of hibernation, I think it’s time for another nap. I warned you, this is my ungodly hour after all. But, in true holiday spirit, I genuinely hope each and every one of you has a blessed and memorable holiday season. Until then, wake me up when it decides to be livable outside, this cold weather is for the birds.

Life’s a Brazilian Wax

Do you ever feel accomplished? Like you just conquered some sort of incredible, overwhelming feat? That’s how I feel about most of my life. And not because I’m incredible, inspiring, or really even that accomplished. What I mean is most of the trivial things that every other adult considers “daily norms,” are essentially looming, monumental tasks in my books. Allow me to elaborate. If I could give myself gold stars throughout the day, I would get one every time I actually woke up at the time for which I set my alarm, rather than hitting snooze for an hour and then proceeding to panic over the thought that I have no time to get ready. Or every day I go to work with my full face of makeup because I woke up early enough for actual grooming instead of a haphazard messy bun and left over blush that was left on the brush from the day before. Or even not missing appointments. Those are the kinds of things that make me feel accomplished. I think that means I’ve resorted to setting my bar pitifully low.

On the topic of accomplishments, I have survived the past month (that’s 4 weeks!) with no (repeat, no) cell phone. If that isn’t barbaric enough, I even dry shaved! Just a small part though, not my whole leg – I’m not a masochist; although *side note* my recent decision to put myself through a full Brazilian waxing session may indicate otherwise. And while we’re here let’s explore this rabbit trail for a bit. The day I willed my body into a waxing salon for an experience I was certain I could not imagine, was by far one of the bravest moment of my life. Oh, the sacrifices we make in the name of beauty! As if my life isn’t preoccupied with copious amounts of hair removal rituals as it is. It’s safe to say that if you’ve never had it done, it’s definitely one of those things that you just can’t imagine feeling until you’ve felt it. Cons – hurts like the devil himself and costs a bit more than anyone would want to fish out on a regular basis. Pros – the pain is extremely short lived, it looks great, and you don’t have to worry about shaving for a good while. I will say, my butt wasn’t used to this level of violation and the aesthetician had a good laugh when she saw my derriere try to fold in on itself to stay away from her sheer disregard for my personal space. I’m not going to lie, the pain was intense at certain points, but I eventually had myself laughing at just how loud I was screaming. That was the moment I was grateful to be the only one in the building. “Just so you know, I’m a blogger, and this is definitely going in my next piece,” I told her in the brief seconds of relief I had between each strip. I’m still not sure if that was a threat or a compliment.

So, for someone that normally feels victorious for making it through the day without eating chocolate (a very rare feat), you can imagine how good I felt about my life the day my phone did actually arrive and I was home to receive it rather than locked in a psych ward. It helped that I vividly remember a world before cell phones and even Facebook – *gasp* hard to imagine, right!? I wonder how kids these days who don’t remember those stone ages would cope if that happened to them. Needless to say, I now know how to rough it, step aside Bear Grylls. Don’t you worry, I’m not getting too high and mighty over here. The universe has a creative way of making sure us low-lifes stay humble amidst triumph. In that same time frame, I also burnt my foot with a curling iron (don’t ask) and accidentally punched myself in the face (seriously…don’t), so I’d say my ups and downs have managed to balance themselves out.

The highlight (or rather lowlight) of my week happened when my doctor broke the news that I officially need to start working out. Of course, it’s something I’ve always known, but hearing a medical professional say it out loud is a different realization entirely. And if you’ve been following me long enough you know how much of a struggle it is for me to compel myself into exercise (if not check out Getting a (Love)-Handle on Life). I suppose my daily Reese’s cup snack ritual isn’t helping. It’s an understatement to say I have a sugar problem. I recently turned to Dr. Oz who claimed to know the simple secret to curving those sugar cravings. Apparently, the key is to not eat sugar free-foods in place of sugary foods. Now stay with me, I’ll explain. There is a trigger in your brain that goes off when you eat sugar-filled foods to tell you that you have satisfied the sugar craving. This trigger tells your body that it got the much-needed energy it was lacking and shuts off the sugar crave. Sugar-free foods with artificial sugars, don’t affect that trigger so the sugar crave continues. Makes a sort of ironic sense, right? In the end, that episode taught me one very important lesson. My brain is broken. Because I can assure you with the utmost confidence that I have never eaten a piece of chocolate and thought Ok, I’m good now. If anything, it just makes me want even more. And so, the vicious cycle ensues.

Sum it up. Aside from my near blindness in a feeble attempt to apply fake eyelashes and my apparent attempt to break my own back by single-handedly moving an entire room of furniture, I still managed to survive yet another few weeks. Maybe one day I’ll get so good at this life thing that I can gauge my success on something other than mere survival. One can dream, right? After all, I did successfully cut my own bangs and teach myself how to contour, that’s a step! Like I said, it’s the little things.But if I’ve learned anything, I’d have to say that life is like one big Brazilian wax. Sometimes to get where you wanna be, you gotta take some risks, accept the pain along the way, rip out some hair, and remember that in the end it only hurts for a second. OK, so maybe the whole hair thing isn’t all that relative, but you get the idea.


#girlprobs. Period.

Wow. How long has it been since we have talked? I have a confession – I know my writing hiatus has been far outlived. I have recently begun working with an online magazine (check them out!) about getting some articles published, and while it is no good excuse, it has certainly distracted me from my personal commitment to publishing my recent works. So to all of my former followers, welcome back; and to those new to the site, I’m glad you’re here! Make sure to check out my other pieces as well! (click here for a full list of blogs).

I have to say a lot has happened to me since we last spoke. Like A LOT. And no worries, I’m not going to relay the last 10 months’ worth of experiences on you today, that would be a lot to take in. I’m sure we’ll catch up though, after all we have plenty of time, and I of course have eager hands that are ready and willing to hash out my interesting experiences over the next few weeks of writing.

For today, I figured I would start out talking about something near and dear to mine and every other woman’s hearts. Periods. (I didn’t say it was pleasant.) Nevertheless, it is something the majority of us have to experience on a monthly basis (although, let’s be honest, sometimes it feels like a never-ending basis). Unless of course, you’re one of those “lucky ones,” all jam-packed with hormones to the point that your body forgets it’s supposed to try to murder you every month. I was one of those “lucky ones” – for about nine months until the side effects didn’t begin to feel so lucky.

I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say after 9 months of depo provera injections, I decided to give the shot the kick and revert to the old-fashioned pill. Now, it’s not easier. Asking me to remember to take a pill every day at the same time is basically hopeless; but beggars can’t be choosers. And after 9 months, 20 pounds, and 2 cup sizes, I decided to beg to find an alternative that wouldn’t completely disfigure me. It’s bad enough that I eat rubbish and avoid the gym at all costs (Getting A (Love)-Handle on Life), the last thing I need is some medication magnifying those tendencies.

So after 9 months, menstruation free, I chose to go back to the old-fashioned ways. The “natural” way, as I often hear it described, especially by those that insist a monthly period is not only natural, but also necessary. Necessary or not, it’s certainly dreaded. And aside from the back-breaking (quite literally, but that’s a different story) side effects of depo, I gladly welcomed my new period-free lifestyle.

So at this time, you can probably see where this is going. Because after 9 months of pure bliss, it was time for me to let Aunt Flo back into my life. And, as per usual, she spent about a week wrecking my mind, body, and sanity. It shocked me how much I forgot what having a period was like – I guess I was so overly elated to be rid of it my mind chose to block the trauma I had endured. So the day that trauma was relived, I thought I was going to fall apart. (Ok, I know I’m being dramatic, but let’s be fair, that’s kind of part of it too).

I am sad to admit that there are a few things about coping with menstruation that I forgot existed. So in her honor, I have decided to present to you a list of all the things you may have forgotten you have to deal with when Aunt Flo comes to town if you’re on a birth control that keeps her away.

At some point you’re going to hurt yourself. At some point in your life you will feel pain. We all know this is inevitable. But the scheduled, monthly agony that comes along is another beast entirely. After a while you get used to the idea of not having to look forward (with dread, of course) to dealing with a full week of relentless pain. Another month passes and still you are worry-free as ever. Well not anymore. My first month away from depo made me realize how much I forgot what it feels like to deal with the cramps and aches of menstruation. Of course my body made sure I remembered really quick. Mother Nature is a bitch.

2.Feeling prego…
I’m not going to lie, I kind of forgot about the swelling. Ya know, the fact that your uterus swells to what feels like twenty times its regular size. The morning I woke up to my week-long doomsday (doomsweek?), I looked down to find a perfectly pouchy stomach just sitting there. I felt like I spent the rest of the week just holding onto it from time to time (because in my subconscious that would calm the demon, to no avail), until I realized that everyone who saw me probably thought I was cradling a baby bump, because to be honest, that’s kind of what it looks like. It’s ironic considering menstruating is about as opposite from pregnant as you can get; yet, all the symptoms are alike. Just another way to Mother Nature likes to screw with you, I guess.

3.Heating pads…everywhere…always
My heating pad was tucked away, on vacation, never to be seen again! Until now. I had to dig it out and remember to take it with me everywhere I went. No way am I sitting through 12 hours of work without out. It’s like your period’s ball and chain, you really don’t want to go too far without it.

4.Having to think ahead and be prepared for once
Suffice it to say I’m not always the most prepared individual. I leave behind my debit card, license, and anything else I could possibly need more often than not. Now I have to adult again and start thinking ahead. Preparing for the flood gates to open, because you just never know what the day has in store for you. That’s really asking a lot from a girl who’s currently wearing a dress with both toothpaste and deodorant stains on it (the obvious status of my life right now). I’m just not sure I’m ready for this type of responsibility.

5.Shopping strategy
Remember those glory days when you could wake up on any given day and embark on a shopping spree, as long as your wallet allowed? I do. Now I have to implement what I like to call my shopping strategy, which basically means one week out of the month I can’t go shopping. Between the bloating and flood of emotions, that last thing you need is to feel like you can’t fit into anything. Yet for some reason, I always have the undying urge to hit the mall exactly and only on that week. Just to keep the irony flowing.

6.The moods
Oh the moods! I should be able to accidentally drop my dinner on the floor (I know, not a surprise) and NOT self-destruct into a ball of tears. Really? It’s a frozen meal. It’s not even that great. My rational brain knows that, but my Flo-brain sees everything as an imminent end. If I catch myself crying to one more cartoon I’m cutting myself off.

7.The munchies
And finally, the food cravings. Ok, let’s be honest. If you’re familiar with my work you already know all too well that this one is really not all that different. Food pretty much governs my life. But I will say, I don’t think I’ve ever craved chicken so readily as I did that first week. I don’t know what Flo was up to down there, but it was all I could think about. I mean I suppose it’s better than craving chocolate, but I still do that every day so it’s not really like that problem changed.

So there you have it. It’s funny because I never thought about writing about the ironies or #girlprobs until I experienced a glorious 9 months without them. I guess it’s true – you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. And now it’s back.

P.s. For any men that may have decided to read this, you’re welcome. Now you know; bring us flowers.


Dear Driver at the Four-Way Intersection…

Dear Driver at the Four-Way Intersection,

I have decided to write you this letter because my frustrations have all but reached their maximum capacity. I might rip off my steering wheel if I clench it any harder in complete exasperation. My heart begins to ache as I approach that dreaded red eight-sided sign ahead of me. I should not have to hope so intently that grown adults in public find a way to (for once) work together to make what should be nothing more than a menial task actually operable.

It’s a simple system really. One which dates back to the apparently forgotten days of youth. Remember standing in line, your peers surrounding you. One in front and one behind. It was the magical days when you first learned the virtue of what it means to take turns. As one child approached the drinking fountain, the one behind him had to wait until he was done before it was her turn. Now I understand that a 4-way intersection adds three more dimensions to this simple ideology of old, but the principles remain constant.

Now what this means for you, my soon-to-be educated comrade, is that simply put, all you have to do is wait your turn. If you approach a 4-way stop and there are three people present, you wait until all three take their turn. Now keep in mind this is two more than you would have had to wait behind in the school cafeteria lines, but I have full confidence that you make sense of what has become the bewilderment of modern society. If you wait for only a single person to take their turn before deciding that you want to discombobulate the entire working system, I want nothing less than to approach you in your vehicle, confront the matter, and ask that you reclaim your place behind the designated stop sign and try gain. Granted I do not have the audacity to perform such acts, but just know I have thought about it from time to time.

I would like to simply ask you where  this sense of deliberate entitlement arises. Why is it that you feel you ought to advance from your place of vehicular idling to go on about your way before giving everyone else at the intersection their fair chance of procession? Is where your going more important than the rest of us? Maybe it is. Maybe that stop at the mall is so dire that can rest easy at night knowing that a working roadway system has been trashed in the face of “more important things” and a single girl’s OCD has been demolished for your entightled inconvenience.

Furthermore, I hope that someday we can all get to a stable place of mind where one person’s destruction of the sacred 4-way does not lead to a cataclismic chain of events of further violations. It looks like a sloppy game of dominos! I watch as one person proceeds to go out of turn, and suddenly the entire network of automobiles might as well be as lost as a herd of chickens trying desperately to just make it in life. Everyone, take a deep breath, forgoe the panic, and start from where you left off. It’s as if one person going out of turn sets off a state of such confusion that three other cars begin to “try their best” and pile up in the middle of the interesection. There’s nothing more frustrating (or sometimes funnier) than watching two cars accelerate-brake-accelerate-brake, as they attempt tp determine who should actually be going while simmultaneously both agreeing it should be himself.

So, my dear 4-way intersection driver, you have sing-handedly caused disruption within my conscious, disarray within the intersection and those who blindly follow in your footsteps, and complete dysfunction in a universe made right by systematic rules that in a utopian world would result in perfect structure. And you know who you are. You are the same person that does not take the time to pause while exiting an aisle in the grocery store – you have decided that slamming into my Wal-Mart cart is acceptible, as long as you make it three feet down the row before I do. You are the person who talks incessantly at louder-than-necessary volume on a two-hour plane flight because what you have to say is more important than the sleep that the person next to you so desperately needs. And finally you are the person who drives down a parking lot row on the wrong side of the road because all logic and rules of the road go out the window once you throw parking spots in the mix – but that is a different rant entirely.

See you soon at the corner. Let’s try to make it work this time.

 Dani 😉


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