Well, today’s my birthday. I am now officially late-twenties. I expected late-twenties to look differently … but not necessarily better.

In the spirit of a new year/age, I’m going to try this writing thing again. I’ve missed you guys.

One of my phone’s apps is horoscope.com where I can read my horoscope or draw tarot cards. Today, I drew the Love Death card. Oh, Silly Tarot, you’re so redundant.

A present from my ‘Olly cousin: ‘Bam in magnet form. He lives on my fridge, and sometimes, like when changing his outfit, I take the opportunity to talk to him about his presidency. Constructive stuff, of course. Like how he needs to stop spending so much money. I think he appreciates the advice.


Upon discovery, I emailed my mom to share the good news:

[Bestest Friend] is my emergency contact at work. So … if I drop dead or something, expect to receive the news from her.

I didn’t remember listing my Bestest Friend as my emergency contact until I checked my company profile today, saw her name and remembered how, when I was filling out the form over two years ago, we were emailing back and forth and I said, “I’m going to list you as my emergency contact!” and she was all, “Ooo, yes! Do it!”

I find it awesome; my mom asked if she could perhaps advocate for another choice.

As I sat crouched over the toilet, vomiting repeatedly, I worried not about my head pain, the partial blindness, or the numbness on my left side, but rather: dammit, if I knew this was going to happen, I would’ve had brownies for breakfast.

Had a discussion with a friend. This was a few weeks ago. I’ve tried writing about it, even have a few drafts waiting, unfinished, in a desktop folder, but none of them are right. The discussion did not go well, at least on my side. She may have had a different take on it, or perhaps not, since I didn’t bend to her will or come out seeing her as the innocent victim, as she had predetermined her role whereas I was the evil one, the one who done her wrong. She was outright mean and passively manipulative; I didn’t like that side of her as a person, and I don’t like thinking about it, much less writing it. I’m just kinda done and it/she doesn’t really deserve more time and attention than that.

Maybe someday I’ll finish one of the drafts because the things she would say … oh, Internet, I wish you were there, standing behind her, so I could have had a rational someone over her shoulder – and maybe slightly to the left so as to not be obvious – at whom to roll-my-eyes throughout the twists she took my words. Ok, I lied just then, I really didn’t want someone for eye-rolls, I wanted someone to watch in amazement and say, preferably with grandiose arm waving, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS BULLSHIT.