Want to know what the worst part of my day is lately?

It’s the moment when I put on the outfit I planned in my head the night before, ecstatic over the cute accessories and styling of it all, and remember I’m not the Victoria’s Secret model I picture myself as in my head.

Now, I know I’m not hideous, but my body is awkwardly shaped and try as I might to look polished, chic and cool – I just end up looking messy, awkward, and weird.

Some days are better than others, but for the most part I tend to be disappointed in the results.

It all goes back to my figure. I have small arms and legs. In fact, those items are rather shapely and attractive (minus some inevitable cellulite) – in my opinion. But my mid-section is just a son of a bitch.

First off, I have a gut. I will always have a gut. Even if I lost an unhealthy amount of weight, I would still have a paunch. I know this, because when I was a gangly, skinny teenager – I still had one. It’s in both sides of my genes, and will only get bigger or smaller. It will never go away.

In addition to said gut, I also have a very large rib cage. That thing is big. (Please use your best Ron Burgundy voice in your head when you read that.) I had a “friend” tell me once that even if I got super skinny, I would still look fat because my ribs are so big. I’ve probably mentioned that before. You don’t forget such things.

To top it all off, I have small breasts. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good ones. They are perky and I could probably never wear a bra and get away with it (this is going to elicit some very interesting search engine terms on the old blog). But, the fact that they are small means that they do not protrude much further out than my gut or my ribs do.

Also, I have no waist.

All of that combined makes for much difficulty in the dressing department.

If I belt something, I look like Santa Clause.

If I wear an umpire waisted anything, I look pregnant (and will probably have someone ask me how far along I am).

If I tuck a nice blouse into pants, you can automatically see how much bigger my gut is than my very small hips (I actually think they may measure smaller than my stomach does).

Regardless of what this does to my self esteem, it does more to make being fashionable nearly impossible. I just don’t look good in most of the trendy things out there and because I’m not at my slimmest weight right now and my gut is bigger than usual – I’ve run out of ways to hide it.

I know there are worse problems to have and I sound extremely shallow in all of this, but dammit, is it so much to ask to be able to fit into clothes?

Yes, I love myself no matter what and I know beauty is only skin deep, but it would be dishonest to act like this is a thing that doesn’t bother me.

In my most extreme moments (say, after trying on ten things at Zara and gasping in horror at each one – I cannot shop there) I’ve considered breast implants to even things out, but I can’t afford them. And then I think of liposuction, but fear it would backfire and I’d end up with all my gut fat lodged on my forearms or something.

I think I need fashion advice, or a stylist, or something. There’s got to be other girls out there who are shaped like me, no?

Perhaps I should start a fashion line for women who look pregnant, but aren’t. It could be my million dollar idea.

(Please understand that this post was just my way of poking fun of something that annoys me and that I’m not seriously all that distraught over this, and am in NO WAY seeking compliments. In fact, your compliments need not apply. I’d really like fashion advice or commiseration or an offer of free services from DC’s most talented gut vaporizer.)

Incoming search terms:

• i hate wearing clothes
• i hate clothes
• i hate wearing cloths
• reasons why I hate wearing clothes
• why do I hate wearing clorjes
• women that hate wearing clothes

When I write a post like yesterday’s, it’s usually involves an array of activities and emotions.

First, it starts with me laying in bed not sleeping (because that’s what I do best) and thinking about everything in the world. Then I have a single thought. Then, I obsess over that thought. Then, I decide I should blog about it.

So I mentally write the post in my head about ten different times, feeling that it will be the most meaningful thing I’ve ever written until I fitfully doze off to sleep and dream about coffee getting spilled all over my walls and how Mr. T won’t help me clean it and then I get lost on the metro and never make it home.

I wake up the next morning, probably pissed off at the real Mr. T for what the dream Mr. T did, and go about my morning forgetting about the previous night’s blog idea.

Then I sit down to my computer and remember, “Oh yeah! I had a brilliant thing to write!”

So I start typing, but the words just come out wrong (that’s a song right?) and I end up writing almost 1,000 words without ever truly feeling like I’ve made the real point I wanted to make.

I edit and clean it up and try to make it make sense, and then I hit publish.

Then, I start to wonder why I ever thought what I wanted to write about was worth writing in the first place.

Then, the first couple of comments start to trickle in. Some are amenable, some are incredibly thought-provoking, some are politely critical – and they all make me think about the post and the entire idea I was writing about in new and incredibly interesting ways.

Then I just get caught up in the dialogue, and remembering why I love blogging and love the people I write for – most of whom also write their own thoughtful, awesome blogs and I just feel happy.

I thought about writing some follow up stuff, but it was so well addressed in the comments that I think it would be redundant at this point.

I just want to give another thank you to all of you for your words, which turned out to be far more eloquent than mine on the matter.

I have realized that because of who I am (a person who struggles with depression) happiness will always be awkward for me – but that doesn’t mean my happiness is fake and I shouldn’t worry about letting it come across on the blog. That’s a VERY over-simplified version of what I learned yesterday, but it was a good lesson nevertheless.

So, where to go from this discussion? Ice cream, obviously.

I knew I would be eating dinner later than usual last night, so when I walked past an ice cream truck called Sinplicity on the way to get my hair cut, I couldn’t really pass it buy.

I got the salty caramel ice cream, which came with a tasty biscotti on the side. It was heaven. If I take a picture of something I’m eating while walking so I can make sure to blog about it, you know it’s good.

Lately I’ve been annoyed with my tone on the blog. I’m still coming into my own with this happiness thing, and sometimes I feel as though I sound a bit forced and fake in my writing.

Now, I know that (most of) y’all will say that I don’t and that even if I do, you still like me. And I love you for that. You’ll also say that I deserve to be happy, so just enjoy it. And I love you for that too.

The thing is, while I am happy and happy to be happy, that doesn’t mean that I’m not still in some way shape or form the same dark and pessimistic soul I’ve always been.

Let’s go back to that “everyone deserves to be happy” thing.

To be honest, I don’t really agree with it. We are born as imperfect beings into an imperfect world. We are flawed, and our lives and the lives of those around us are flawed. Therefore, it is inevitable that we will all have our own forms or pain and suffering to endure.

No one deserves exemption from that, and the notion that we are just supposed to have happiness poured upon us like the special-est of flowers is kind of insulting. Why would you want to eliminate all the pain from your life, when that is the exact thing that has built your character and defined your strength?

I know that’s not what you guys mean when you say it. I know you mean that when people are given a reprieve from all the painful shit we have to go through as humans, we do deserve it and we should just embrace it and not over think it. I do agree with that, but I suppose it’s hard for me to blindly accept it.

If you know me, you know that over thinking is the name of my game. So even though I can accept this patch of happiness, and have even gotten to the point where I almost trust it not to fall apart at any moment (almost) – I have to think back to why it is and how it happened and whether or not I do actually “deserve it”.

What I’ve decided is that while I don’t feel I deserve to be happy just because – I do feel that we all deserve the chance to fight for our own happiness.

For some people, this comes very easily. For others, it’s awkward and difficult. Many of us actually feel we deserve sadness and pain and that happiness is usually only a trick.

Now, I’m coming to realize that I have always been a little too hard on myself. That the “sins” I feel I’ve committed do not mean I can never enjoy life.

I don’t deserve pain. I know that. I have accepted it, and it’s been one of the most freeing realizations I’ve had in a long time.

But I still don’t feel I deserve happiness, either.

I give myself a lot of credit for the actions I’ve taken to get from the miserable person I was three or four years ago to the person I am today. The person who thought she didn’t deserve a second chance, or love, or acceptance is gone and I have replaced her with self worth – self worth that I achieved through hard work, introspection and the understanding that if everything falls apart– I am strong enough to make it through the sadness again.

At the same time, I am not completely transformed.

As I said, pain is defining, and I take a lot of ownership – maybe even pride – in mine. To take that away and say that I’m “just happy” feels kind of empty – and as a result I sound phony and forced and annoy myself.

So that needs to stop somehow. I sometimes try to pepper in snark and humor so that I don’t sound like Marcia Brady, but again, that’s not my real tone. I mean, I am snarky and I think I’m funny, but my most natural voice is a dark, brooding, over-analytical crazy person and without that I don’t really know how to be.

This is made ever more clear by the fact that I’m not sure I’ve said anything in this whole block of text I’ve just written. Maybe I’ll just ask some questions, because isn’t that always the easy way out?

Do you think that we inherently deserve happiness? Pain? Do you even care?

Do you think I’m more annoying when I’m happy, or when I’m not? Or is it equal?

That this drink, made with Hendrick’s gin, velvet falemum, lemon, cucumber, rosemary, and bitter lemon tonic is the best way to kick off a holiday weekend.

That I have no idea what velvet falemum is, but it tastes delicious.

That when drinking said drink, which is called Rosemary’s Dream, you should eat the macaroni and cheese and the steak and Guiness pie (shared with Mr. T) from Againn at the same time.

That Againn, a contemporary gastropub near my apartment, is a delicious place to grab a bite, but it’s expensive so having a Living Social deal will help.

That the New York Ave Beach Bar is a good time, but there’s an awkward window between the hours of 6 p.m. and dark when you’re standing around looking at each other because besides the sand and the cheap beer, there’s nothing to do and nowhere to sit.

That once the sun goes down, and you hit the “dance sand” for a dance party, all awkward moments will be forgotten. Until a group of dudes falls on you and sandifies your beer and a slight altercation ensues. Then you’ll just leave and head to your roof to finish the night.

That Sunday Fundays that start with “bottomless vodka” at 18th Amendment are probably not a good idea.

That in order to drink three cups of vodka (one as a bloody Mary and two as screwdrivers), you should inhale a breakfast burrito with bacon-flavored breakfast potatoes in order to stay upright.

That any place that serves a single gummy bear as “dessert” after a meal, is amazing.

That any three day weekend should involve Miller Lites and boats. There were many Millers, but only one boat.

That I’m not wearing the same outfit two days in a row. One was a dress and one was a shirt.

That hot pink is my new favorite color.

That despite what these photographs may suggest, I didn’t just drink all weekend.

That I want to own a boat.

That “party cruises” will usually attract the type of people you don’t want to share a watercraft with at 4 p.m.

That stripper heels should never be worn before dark. Why try that hard?

That’s I’m acting like a 90 year old. Dag nabbed kids.

That I can’t spend an hour in nature without breaking out in some sort of rash. It’s ridiculous.

That Greenbelt Park is just okay as a hiking destination.

That a holiday weekend should end with dinner from the grill – Hawaiian pork chops, roasted Brussels and baked potatoes – delish.

That this post was lame, but the long weekend was one of the best I’ve had in ages. I felt like I had time to do everything I wanted to do without being rushed. Loved it.

This month marked the third year of this blog’s history, the first anniversary of my post-Oklahoma livelihood, and the finishing of a book I started reading in April of 2011 but kept putting on the back burner because it wasn’t that good. Momentous occasions. Or, small, irrelevant blips. Whichever.

Speaking of irrelevant blips, I stopped Twittering for a long time, but recently I’ve been logging in again. Around 3 p.m., I get 500 tweets about every happy hour in the DC metro area. It’s torture! I could just unfollow all those bars and restaurants, but then I wouldn’t know about ALL THE HAPPY HOURS. Can’t have that.

Speaking of bars, I just found out that one is opening within walking distance of my apartment that is going to replicate a beach. Like with real sand and everything. I’m going to live there.

Speaking of beaches, I booked a vacation! People at my new job take vacations. AND no one gives them huge amounts of shit for it. This has never happened in all my time of employment, so I’m taking full advantage. For five whole nights in December, Mr. T and I will be slumbering on the island of St. Thomas. I haven’t gone on a vacation longer than three or four nights since I was 21. It was supposed to be my “engagement trip” but we were already broken up. I’m hoping that isn’t a bad omen…

Speaking of bad, I understand why no one cares about the Oklahoma City Thunder. I don’t like it, but I get it. They’re a new team, so they have little to no fans outside of OKC (not counting transplants like myself), Seattle people hate them for leaving, and all that. But come on, when we beat the Lakers (four games in a row!) shouldn’t there at least be one story where the headline has the word Thunder in it? It’s always “What will the Lakers do now?” “The poor Lakers lost.” “What happened to the Lakers?” Wah, wah, wah. If we beat out the Spurs in the next series, I expect some friggin recognition. It’s getting ridiculous. Also, if you live in DC – why not just be a Thunder fan? It’s not like there’s any basketball around here worth getting excited about. Just sayin’.

Speaking of DC, I’m sticking around the district for the holiday weekend, and I’m super pumped. I like to try to fly home for long weekends, but since I’m going in July and September, a staycation was definitely in order. Plus, I haven’t spent a long weekend here where I haven’t been either moving, working ridiculous hours, or traveling, so it just needed to happen. People act like staying here is lame and that beaches are where it’s at (okay, beaches are where it’s at), but DC is a city to which people take vacations. I’m sure there will be fun things to do. I have a varied list of possible activities like taking a hike, going to aforementioned beach bar, getting a library card, doing a boat thing, grilling out, boozy brunch, pool time, etc. Oh, and I’m sure eating millions of things.

Speaking of eating, hosting dinner parties is expensive, so this week we decided not to buy groceries and just wing it since we had more food hanging around than usual. This is great for the wallet, but when the contents of your fridge/freezer include: leftover beef, leftover cheesy potatoes, leftover cheesecakes, five kinds of cheese, leftover Hawaiian rolls and cornbread, two kinds of Ben & Jerry’s Greek frozen yogurt, bagel bites, cheddar bites, pizza rolls and mini quesadillas… well, it’s awesome. But there does come a time when vegetables are a must.

Speaking of nothing relevant, Mr. T’s name is Tom. He doesn’t care if people know that, so I feel dumb using the nickname to sound all mysterious, but it’s kind of stuck and I like it. The SIL (who does care if I use her real name) even calls him Mr. T when we email each other. Sometimes I forget that’s not his real name. So I’ll probably keep referring to him as Mr. T.

Speaking of referring to things, I don’t have anything left to say. Wrapping up randomy listy posts is hard. So I’m done.

Cooking for a boyfriend’s parents was something I had never done before this past Sunday.

Even though I live with a guy now, I don’t play the housewife roll. I don’t think I’d even know how if I tried.

There are some domestic things that I do, like making sure the laundry is done every week and keeping the apartment in a pristine condition, but these were things I’ve always done for myself.

Mr. T and I share the role of cooking about 50/50. In fact, I’d say he cooks more often than I do.

I don’t say this to sound progressive (because it takes MUCH for than that to really be progressive), just to explain how things are.

I’m not the girl who needs her boyfriend’s parents to like her. Sure, it would be nice if they did, but I have too many parental figures to impress as it is. I can’t take any more pressure than what I’ve already got.

Therefore, I was kind of annoyed with myself for how much work I put into this dinner and how much I wanted it to be great. It felt like I was the typical American housewife trying to impress her in-laws.

The more I think about it though, I guess it just goes back to my OCD and always wanting things to be perfect. Anytime I cook anything for anyone, I want it to be outstanding, so I shouldn’t have expected doing it for Mr. T’s parents shouldn’t have been any different.

And because I like them, and love their son, I didn’t want to poison them with shitty food.

Mr. T helped a lot, so that was a relief. He’s quite good in the kitchen. Still, I managed to stress myself out with whole process.

In an effort to thoroughly impress, we made a lot of food. Well, “made” some of it, assembled some of it, and took some of it out of packages. I’ve never claimed to be Ina Garten.

For “appetizers” I threw together a Caprese salad. I love them for entertaining because they’re so pretty. The basil was fresh from our terrace, too. So fancy, right? My mom helped me plant herbs when she was home two weeks ago and so far they are still alive.

We also set out honey roasted peanuts for snacking, and managed to eat five million of them before the guests arrived. Bad call.

Lurking in the background you can see the homemade mini cheesecakes, with fresh berries. Later, I added some snicker doodle cookies to the dessert plate (made from store bought dough).

Mr. T’s mom had recently given me a recipe for a cheesy potato casserole, so we decided to make that as one of the sides.

This recipe is a heart attack waiting to happen, but so amazingly good. I’m sure you’ve had something similar – potatoes, butter, sour cream, condensed soup, more butter, cheese, more butter and some kind of crunch. Fail proof.

The most important part of any hosted dinner is the booze. That way, people might get too drunk to notice if anything tastes good or not. I had a variety of options available, but we (me, Mr. T and his dad) stuck with a Shiraz while his mom had a glass of Pinot Grigio.

The rest of the meal consisted of slow roasted homemade brisket (that was not as good as my mother’s, and I was heartbroken), roasted broccolini, store bought Hawaiian rolls and cornbread, and coleslaw (bag of coleslaw, meet jarred coleslaw dressing).

It was certainly far from gourmet, but by the time it  was all finished, I thought I might collapse. I don’t know how those people who make every single thing from scratch do it.

Everyone seemed to enjoy the food,  and as the evening went on I realized that I’d been much too hard on myself. I was holding myself up to an imaginary expectation. I could have made sandwiches and everyone would have been just as happy.

Maybe a part of me thought that making such an elaborate meal would make up for the fact that I’ll never want to stay at home and make babies. Who knows?

But it’s over now, I’ve recuperated, and I think I’d even like to do it again. Next time, I’ll cut back a bit, make less food, and enjoy myself more.

There are a few morals to this story:

1. You will never make a recipe of your mother’s (or grandmother’s) that will be as good as you remember it.

2. You should always cut at least one dish out when planning a dinner party. There will be too much food, and you’ll end up eating most of it.

3. Cheese and potatoes should never be forgotten.

4. Having a boyfriend who cooks and doesn’t want you to stay home and make babies is awesome. (Unless that’s what you want to do, which is cool too.)

5. I take everything too seriously.

So, gluttonous. I mentioned that it was the word of the weekend. In truth, it’s kind of the word of the past year for me. Or perhaps just my lifetime in general.

I just eat so well. I’m so good at it. Really. Why am I not being paid for this skill yet?

Anyway… Mr. T suggested a patio dinner Saturday night because the weather was so nice. We googled good patios in DC and Poste was the winner – because its hidden patio looked awesome and because we didn’t have to metro to get there. Metroing on the weekends isn’t my favorite.

I hadn’t really heard too much about this place, so I wasn’t expecting much. But by the time we left, it was my new favorite restaurant.

I started out with a mojito, because it was hot and they taste so good in the heat. It was tasty enough, but after that I moved onto one of their signature cocktails – In the Lime of Fire – which consists of cilantro and chili infused tequila, mango nectar, agave and lime.

It was like a bull fight in my mouth. In a good way, of course.

Mr. T is not a margarita lover, but he tried this and liked it a lot. In fact, he grabbed it again when there were about three drinks left and asked if he could just go ahead and finish it.

Um, no sir. Order your own.

That’s exactly what I said as I snatched it back out of his hands and gulped it down. I don’t play nicely with others.

But he did order his own, and I moved onto beer so I wouldn’t be too drunk to enjoy my food. Good decisions all around.

We started with oysters, because oysters are always good. These were very fresh and not so big you felt like you were going to gag them back up. I was pleased.

Before the oysters came, they gave us a huge bread basket with fluffy rolls, creamed butter and crusty bread.

I personally contend that restaurants should tell you if they’re going to lay down the gauntlet of 2,000 calories of bread BEFORE you order your meal. If I would have known about all that mayhem, we might have passed up the truffle fries, which came next.

These fries were out of this world good. Really, really good. Definitely the best truffle fries I’ve ever had, which are seemingly everywhere these days. I guess they’re trendy right now.

The fries were ordered to go with the Brasserie Burger, which we were sharing, but before that – I had soup.

Vichyssoise, to be specific, which is one of my favorites and one of the only chilled soups I actually enjoy. Poste’s version was delicious, but I tried to save room for the burger which I knew would be massive and would require a lot of concentration and determination on behalf of me and my stomach.

I was right.

And yes, I ate an undercooked hamburger. This has never happened before. But when you’re given a burger this delicious, you just close your eyes and go for it. Food poisoning would be worth it.

See the “bun”? Well, that was four of the aforementioned fluffy rolls that came in the bread basket. Instead of a bun, they used FOUR dinner rolls just for the top part of the bun. For real. Along with all that business was MORE FRIES.

Why the waiter didn’t warn us that we were ordering fries on top of fries is beyond me. We thought everything was a la cart. Wrong.

It was a hard lesson to learn, and resulted in a lot of moaning, but sometimes you’ve just got to suck it up and eat like there’s no tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll eventually reign in my gluttony, but then what would I blog about?

This past weekend was a much needed break from the traveling and then hosting and then hosting and then traveling that I’ve been doing for the past month or so. Those things are much more fun than lazy weekends, but they can wear a girl out.

So this weekend was a little more low key. On Friday, I finally tried the tots at Sticky Rice, followed by some sushi. Any place that is famous for both fried potatoes and raw fish has my interest.

Verdict: The tots were far too greasy and pretty underwhelming (go to Bottom Line instead) and the sushi was good, but not great. We had a Living Social deal to use, so our meal was pretty cheap, but if we’d been paying full price I may have been a wee bit pissed off about the meal. I’m just kind of a picky bitch I suppose.

After dining, we went to a play. After seeing Really Really back in March I decided I was “a play person”. You know, very cultured and such.

This play though… well I guess I wasn’t cultured enough. The acting was good, but it was an Irish play and I had a hard time understanding the dialogue. The plot also moved at a snail’s pace. We decided to leave after the first act, even though I felt kind of guilty. I’m sure it was very good for a different audience, but it seemed to be geared toward older males.

So we left, went back home and then decided to go back out because my outfit was too cute and needed to be seen by more people. We all do that sometimes, right?

We ended up at District Chophouse for some of their house-brewed beers.

I had the seasonal and a light (you know, to offset the two pounds of mediocre tots I had eaten earlier that evening) while we watched basketball and chatted at the bar. Perfect way to end a Friday night.

We went home early because Saturday needed to be productive. I cooked dinner for Mr. T’s parents Sunday night, and Saturday involved lots of prep.

First, brunch at the Chesapeake Room in Eastern Market.

We sat down in an open window and I was immediately in love with the atmosphere, but the experience was slightly subdued by the fact that I’d just realized my phone was not with me, but in the back of an Uber cab.

Sigh… I’m an idiot and lose things every five minutes. I got it back awhile later though.

The menu was rather innovative, with only a few classic breakfast items. Fried green tomatoes showed up in more than one of the dishes.

I ordered the St. Mary’s Morning without bacon. I know, I suck for not liking it. Sorry.

This was so fabulous I forget about my phone drama and shoveled it in my mouth in about ten seconds. The fried green tomato was standard (still too much breading for my taste) but created a great texture contrast with the eggs. The tomatoes and the goat cheese cream (swoon) added just enough rich flavor to make the dish special.

Eat this.

You can even get it with bacon if that’s how you roll.

After brunching, we went to the actual food market to obtain the biggest chunk of brisket ever, some produce for my dinner and then stopped at an impromptu wine tasting.

So maybe relaxing wasn’t the most accurate descriptor for this weekend. I think gluttonous may better describe it.

In fact, the wondrous gluttony continued well through the end of last night, but I’ll get to that later.

Right now I SHOULD go run about 237 miles to offset it all, but instead I think I’ll go track down some lunch.

Incoming search terms:

• chesapeake room brunch drinks

Something really funny happened to me today and I wanted to email everyone I know about it, but decided blogging it would just be easier.

So, you guys know how I hate it when people squat in the bathroom and then spray pee everywhere and don’t wipe it up? If you didn’t know, I hate it, it makes me violent. Either SIT on the toilet, or wipe up after yourself you disgusting heathens! Kills me.

Anyway.

Another thing you might know about it me is that I really love, and I mean love, when really fancy ladies bust out the F bomb. It makes me giddily happy. It’s always so unexpected and refreshing.

Additionally, I also love accents. A lot. Any kind of accent. I wish I had one.

Keep all these things in mind.

So, I went to the bathroom just before leaving work today, and there was an elegantly dressed older woman entering at the same time as me.

We smile politely at each other and she asks me in her lovely German accent if I’m ready to go home. I mutter enthusiastically that I am, and we go about our business.

We both notice, separately, that the first two stalls are littered with urine because of ignoramus squatters with no decency, so we settle into the third and fourth stalls. Usually I’ll clean it up, but this would have been the fourth time I’d done so today and I was tired of wiping up other people’s pee.

So I’m settling onto my pee-less seat when the woman loudly exclaims in the thickest German accent I’ve heard in awhile “What do these people do? Leave their fucking assholes at home? RIDICULOUS!!”

I died.

If you don’t think that’s funny, that’s fine, but I assure you that it was hilarious to me and put me in an instantly good mood.

Now I’m going to go drink beers with a friend I haven’t seen in far too long and forget about the slightly melodramatic place I was in last night.

Auf Wiedersehen!

I’m not doing confessions. Those are so overdone. I’m just admitting things to you that I wish weren’t true.

Cougartown is my favorite show (today). It’s highly underrated, people.

I think I’m dead inside. Over the years I’ve gone from softy, gets her heart broken every five minutes chick to ‘bitch I will cut you’. Practically overnight, too. I have my reasons though. I may write about it soon.

Correction, I won’t cut anyone. I only point that out so you won’t think I’m murderous, but I want to seem tough and just stick with the previous statement

While reading 50 Shades of Grey, I dreamed of Christian Grey every single night for at least a week. I also liked it.

I haven’t cried in as long as I can remember (see dead inside thing), but all the season finales I’ve watched lately have me pretty close. Nothing gets me emotional like my TV shows. If you cut off my cable, I think I would go into epileptictic shock. I told you, this is about admitting things that I really don’t want to be true.

Sometimes I see myself doing dramatic things, because I’m a dramatic person, and think I’m doing them only for show – but I’m not – I’m just a dramatic person. I think being dramatic shows that you have… gumption, soul, balls. I think I’m strong. I like myself for it. And I don’t mean dramatic because there’s marinara sauce on the carpet. I mean dramatic because life is almost always hard, and unfair, and that should be acknowledged – not ignored. Serious moment of the post, moving on.

I think I’m really good at being a friend and confidant. That’s cocky, but I said it anyway.

I used to really care what people thought about me, and if people liked me, but lately I truly just do not give a shit. Truly.

Anything you’re hesitant to admit?