I think it's safe to say, I'm not good at keeping up with recurring topics. The shout-out of the week died a slow painful death approximately one month after I introduced it, and the photo of the day--let's face it, we all knew that was never going to get very far. But I've finally thought of an easy one that will be quick to do, and for which there is plenty of fodder. I'm calling it "I Judge You (Harshly) Based on the Content of Your Facebook Status." Ok, the name is a work in progress, but I only just thought of this topic a few minutes ago when I read the following post from a high school acquaintance who now has a young son:
"
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Really?
I am not what you would call "lucky." Don't get me wrong, I've got a pretty great life, terrific friends and a family that I like most of the time (just kidding--all the time!). But my life is not charmed. Other people just seem to walk in the light--win $1,000 in the lottery, go to a bar the exact night Jay-Z is there and chats him up, or just generally gets through life with little thought about what could go wrong.
I am not that person. I have never won more than $100 in the lottery (and I maintain that was only because Andrew was there--I've never won even a dollar on my own), the only person I've ever seen in a bar was that guy from that movie, and, though I often worry more than necessary, I'm beginning to think that worry stems from conditioning, and the repeated examples of how whenever one messy situation clears up in my life, another immediately opens. There's a reason you've never heard of the "Luck o' the Norwegians." Though we can hold our own against the Irish when it comes to imbibing, we descendants of the Vikings do not hail from the golden land of frolicking leprechauns, pots of gold and rainbows.
Case in point--I spent ten months worrying about getting a job. I finally did. I then spent the next 4 months searching for a second part-time job. I worried a lot about this, because it is kind of necessary for me to actually live in New York City with any kind of solvency. In the past 4 months, I have applied to many a CraigsList ad, had about 4 or 5 interviews and spent everyday searching for jobs, babysitting gigs or freelance editorial work.
Two weeks ago, I scored a recurring editorial gig. Last week I finally got a part time job with a pretty decent schedule (Tuesday and Wednesday nights at an alternative dance studio, where I will get to take free classes).
So what could be wrong now? Well, I have a mouse infestation. In the past two weeks, I have caught THREE MICE. This is seriously distressing for me, because I hate vermin of all persuasions, classifications, species and breeds. Luckily, Andrew was around to catch two of them. But last night I arrived home to find a suspiciously turd-like object on my stove top (that's right, the little buggers like to hide in my stove. How horrifying is that?). I toed the remaining traps on the ground. Three were empty. The fourth seemed heavy and the little red door that seals off the trap was shut tight.
Crap.
Not only had I had a third mouse scampering around my apartment whilst I was out at happy hour, but now it was dead. In my kitchen. And I had to dispose of it on my own.
I'm not proud of how I behaved. I like to think I'm not much of a girly-girl. But let's look at the evidence: I hate mice, rats, cockroaches, any insect larger than a pinhead and things with more than two legs. I sometimes think that shrieking is an acceptable reaction when encountering any of these things. Blood, while not my favorite of fluids (ranking slightly above bile, but well below vodka) doesn't totally make me want to pass out, though I think long and hard before donating. Perhaps I am a bit of a priss.
So with muffled shrieks, some retching and quite a bit of swearing (maybe I'm not a priss after all?) I managed to scoop up the trap onto a dustpan, deposit it in a garbage bag, tightly tie the bag and toss it out my front door. At 10 o'clock last night, I was so not walking outside to the trash room in my pjs.
Also, there was that whole earthquake thing, and now I've got to spend my whole weekend in Maryland worrying about what hurricane-induced mess will be waiting for me on Sunday behind door number 5D. I pray my crap-ass windows don't shatter. But, looking back on my life and string of uncannily un-serendipitous events it comprises, I will be disheartened, angry, tearful and vomitous, but wholly un-surprised if, upon arrival back at my apartment, I should open the door and be greeted by a flooded, windowless, looted apartment, as a tidal wave of drowned mice washes over my feet and heads for the stairs.
Happy Friday.
I am not that person. I have never won more than $100 in the lottery (and I maintain that was only because Andrew was there--I've never won even a dollar on my own), the only person I've ever seen in a bar was that guy from that movie, and, though I often worry more than necessary, I'm beginning to think that worry stems from conditioning, and the repeated examples of how whenever one messy situation clears up in my life, another immediately opens. There's a reason you've never heard of the "Luck o' the Norwegians." Though we can hold our own against the Irish when it comes to imbibing, we descendants of the Vikings do not hail from the golden land of frolicking leprechauns, pots of gold and rainbows.
Case in point--I spent ten months worrying about getting a job. I finally did. I then spent the next 4 months searching for a second part-time job. I worried a lot about this, because it is kind of necessary for me to actually live in New York City with any kind of solvency. In the past 4 months, I have applied to many a CraigsList ad, had about 4 or 5 interviews and spent everyday searching for jobs, babysitting gigs or freelance editorial work.
Two weeks ago, I scored a recurring editorial gig. Last week I finally got a part time job with a pretty decent schedule (Tuesday and Wednesday nights at an alternative dance studio, where I will get to take free classes).
So what could be wrong now? Well, I have a mouse infestation. In the past two weeks, I have caught THREE MICE. This is seriously distressing for me, because I hate vermin of all persuasions, classifications, species and breeds. Luckily, Andrew was around to catch two of them. But last night I arrived home to find a suspiciously turd-like object on my stove top (that's right, the little buggers like to hide in my stove. How horrifying is that?). I toed the remaining traps on the ground. Three were empty. The fourth seemed heavy and the little red door that seals off the trap was shut tight.
Crap.
Not only had I had a third mouse scampering around my apartment whilst I was out at happy hour, but now it was dead. In my kitchen. And I had to dispose of it on my own.
I'm not proud of how I behaved. I like to think I'm not much of a girly-girl. But let's look at the evidence: I hate mice, rats, cockroaches, any insect larger than a pinhead and things with more than two legs. I sometimes think that shrieking is an acceptable reaction when encountering any of these things. Blood, while not my favorite of fluids (ranking slightly above bile, but well below vodka) doesn't totally make me want to pass out, though I think long and hard before donating. Perhaps I am a bit of a priss.
So with muffled shrieks, some retching and quite a bit of swearing (maybe I'm not a priss after all?) I managed to scoop up the trap onto a dustpan, deposit it in a garbage bag, tightly tie the bag and toss it out my front door. At 10 o'clock last night, I was so not walking outside to the trash room in my pjs.
Also, there was that whole earthquake thing, and now I've got to spend my whole weekend in Maryland worrying about what hurricane-induced mess will be waiting for me on Sunday behind door number 5D. I pray my crap-ass windows don't shatter. But, looking back on my life and string of uncannily un-serendipitous events it comprises, I will be disheartened, angry, tearful and vomitous, but wholly un-surprised if, upon arrival back at my apartment, I should open the door and be greeted by a flooded, windowless, looted apartment, as a tidal wave of drowned mice washes over my feet and heads for the stairs.
Happy Friday.
Friday, August 19, 2011
An Open Letter to Strangers
Dear Strangers I Meet on the Street, in Malls, at Hotels and Mini-Golf Courses,
STOP TELLING ME TO SMILE.
I'm not unhappy. That's just my face. I can't help it that it looks angry.
And, if I was unhappy, having a dirty old man talk to me would not make me feel less unhappy. In fact, if I was unhappy, telling me to smile would probably earn you a dirtier stare (didn't think it was possible? Guess again) and a kick in the shin. Or at least a heavy-duty flat tire when you tried to walk away.
My face, when relaxed, tends to look tense/angry/sad/scowly. You commenting on it does not make me feel better about it or you.
So, strangers, when you see me looking angry, WALK AWAY. You don't poke a sleeping bear and you don't make comments about my facial expression. Either ill-advised activity is likely to get you dead.
Respectfully,
BW
STOP TELLING ME TO SMILE.
I'm not unhappy. That's just my face. I can't help it that it looks angry.
And, if I was unhappy, having a dirty old man talk to me would not make me feel less unhappy. In fact, if I was unhappy, telling me to smile would probably earn you a dirtier stare (didn't think it was possible? Guess again) and a kick in the shin. Or at least a heavy-duty flat tire when you tried to walk away.
My face, when relaxed, tends to look tense/angry/sad/scowly. You commenting on it does not make me feel better about it or you.
So, strangers, when you see me looking angry, WALK AWAY. You don't poke a sleeping bear and you don't make comments about my facial expression. Either ill-advised activity is likely to get you dead.
Respectfully,
BW
Monday, August 15, 2011
The First and Last Time I Drank Jim Beam
This weekend, Andrew and I trucked down to Maryland for Emily and Mike's Second Monthly Post-Wedding Surplus Alcohol Bash. Or, as my dad tipsily called it "Emily 2.0."
Despite sitting in 2 hours of Manhattan traffic on Friday and SEVEN HOURS of stupid rain traffic on Sunday (with hangover) the weekend still managed to be both epic and epically embarrassing.
On Friday night we had a couple drinks and a relatively calm round of Taboo.
On Saturday, we had lunch with my parents and brother.
On Saturday night, we had a lot of drinks, a couple rounds of Kan Jam (a game that requires throwing a Frisbee into a black plastic cylinder) and two rounds of decidedly not-calm Taboo (there was lots of clapping, A-T-T-A-C-K-ing and swearing from the MacDonald boys).
The evening started around 5, included a barbeque and short-lived fire pit, in addition to the activities previously mentioned, and was headed towards becoming a chill, early-to-bed night, as most guests had departed by 9, leaving Emily, Mike, John, Andrew and myself inside playing Taboo in our jammies by 9:30.
Cue two rounds of Kings and the boys feeling a serious buzz. Norwegian tanks that we are, (me, definitely, Emily, not so much), we girls were not quite at the party level, and decided to kick it in to gear, so I switched to drinking straight Crown.
One round of Taboo later (in which the Thoreson girls kicked MacDonald/Vigliotta butt) we were all feeling pretty good. And getting pretty dance-y.
Around midnight, things started breaking down. And by that I mean we started breaking down. Cut to a YouTube playlist full of hip hop, MJ and some good old fashioned classics (Macarena, anybody? Yes, please). I've never headbanged so much or gotten so low in my life. There were a few moves pulled out by other dancers that I've never seen in my life also--Emily spent the majority of the time dancing on the couch, Mike pulled a sassy hip-swinging hand clap and of the two other guys, one pantomimed a telescope during Miley Cyrus' "The Climb" and one "Jumped On It" a la The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
Halfway through the dance party, I decided it was a good idea to switch from straight Crown to straight Jim Beam. Until Sunday morning, I stood by my decision.
Despite my worst hangover to date and an epic cinnamon-roll fail, the weekend was a definite win. The fact that I can't move my neck, have bruises on my shin and feel a strange emotion bordering on embarrassment and self-judgment when I look at the pictures from Saturday night, tells me I made a series of bad decisions. The fact that I am 23 and have awesome friends tells me that it's ok.
Thanks to those friends. At least, I hope we're still friends after I danced up on all of you.
Despite sitting in 2 hours of Manhattan traffic on Friday and SEVEN HOURS of stupid rain traffic on Sunday (with hangover) the weekend still managed to be both epic and epically embarrassing.
On Friday night we had a couple drinks and a relatively calm round of Taboo.
On Saturday, we had lunch with my parents and brother.
On Saturday night, we had a lot of drinks, a couple rounds of Kan Jam (a game that requires throwing a Frisbee into a black plastic cylinder) and two rounds of decidedly not-calm Taboo (there was lots of clapping, A-T-T-A-C-K-ing and swearing from the MacDonald boys).
The evening started around 5, included a barbeque and short-lived fire pit, in addition to the activities previously mentioned, and was headed towards becoming a chill, early-to-bed night, as most guests had departed by 9, leaving Emily, Mike, John, Andrew and myself inside playing Taboo in our jammies by 9:30.
Cue two rounds of Kings and the boys feeling a serious buzz. Norwegian tanks that we are, (me, definitely, Emily, not so much), we girls were not quite at the party level, and decided to kick it in to gear, so I switched to drinking straight Crown.
One round of Taboo later (in which the Thoreson girls kicked MacDonald/Vigliotta butt) we were all feeling pretty good. And getting pretty dance-y.
Around midnight, things started breaking down. And by that I mean we started breaking down. Cut to a YouTube playlist full of hip hop, MJ and some good old fashioned classics (Macarena, anybody? Yes, please). I've never headbanged so much or gotten so low in my life. There were a few moves pulled out by other dancers that I've never seen in my life also--Emily spent the majority of the time dancing on the couch, Mike pulled a sassy hip-swinging hand clap and of the two other guys, one pantomimed a telescope during Miley Cyrus' "The Climb" and one "Jumped On It" a la The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
Halfway through the dance party, I decided it was a good idea to switch from straight Crown to straight Jim Beam. Until Sunday morning, I stood by my decision.
Despite my worst hangover to date and an epic cinnamon-roll fail, the weekend was a definite win. The fact that I can't move my neck, have bruises on my shin and feel a strange emotion bordering on embarrassment and self-judgment when I look at the pictures from Saturday night, tells me I made a series of bad decisions. The fact that I am 23 and have awesome friends tells me that it's ok.
Thanks to those friends. At least, I hope we're still friends after I danced up on all of you.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Downtime
I am quickly approaching the first weekend I’ve had alone in my apartment since June. Can you believe it? Between traveling to Maryland and Long Island, and having visitors come here, I have been busy every single weekend since June 25th! And every weekend before that as well!
Though I love visiting with my family and friends, I really am looking forward to this weekend. But I don’t know what to do! Based on my complete lack of tan and the fact that it is already August, I know I have to do something outside. Unfortunately, it looks like isolated thunderstorms all weekend, so I MUST remember to bring my umbrella.
But, some of my options are:
-trekking out to Coney Island for some beach fun (though if I’m going to be interrupted by rain, I don’t know if I want to make the 2-hour journey)
-finally finding the farmers’ market I’ve heard is in my neighborhood but haven’t found yet
-attending Summer Streets on Park Ave and walking around with lots of other people who are walking and biking around
-reading in Central Park
-walking around a neighborhood I haven’t spent much time in (I’m thinking Soho, Lower East Side (I’ve never even SEEN Avenue A) or Brooklyn) to see what’s about
This is why I make lists. Because just writing that list has helped me narrow it down to #2 and #5. And I don’t see any reason why I can’t do both! If it’s gray in the morning, I’ll do the farmers market and hope it clears up for the afternoon. If it’s sunny in the AM, I’ll start by walking around somewhere not-near my house.
This is going to be great! I’ll get some exercise, see something new and hopefully catch a little vitamin D for my cloistered and sickly epidermis. This is what living in New York is all about. Yay for occasional weekends without plans.
Though I love visiting with my family and friends, I really am looking forward to this weekend. But I don’t know what to do! Based on my complete lack of tan and the fact that it is already August, I know I have to do something outside. Unfortunately, it looks like isolated thunderstorms all weekend, so I MUST remember to bring my umbrella.
But, some of my options are:
-trekking out to Coney Island for some beach fun (though if I’m going to be interrupted by rain, I don’t know if I want to make the 2-hour journey)
-finally finding the farmers’ market I’ve heard is in my neighborhood but haven’t found yet
-attending Summer Streets on Park Ave and walking around with lots of other people who are walking and biking around
-reading in Central Park
-walking around a neighborhood I haven’t spent much time in (I’m thinking Soho, Lower East Side (I’ve never even SEEN Avenue A) or Brooklyn) to see what’s about
This is why I make lists. Because just writing that list has helped me narrow it down to #2 and #5. And I don’t see any reason why I can’t do both! If it’s gray in the morning, I’ll do the farmers market and hope it clears up for the afternoon. If it’s sunny in the AM, I’ll start by walking around somewhere not-near my house.
This is going to be great! I’ll get some exercise, see something new and hopefully catch a little vitamin D for my cloistered and sickly epidermis. This is what living in New York is all about. Yay for occasional weekends without plans.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Wow, I Didn't Realize It Has Almost Been a Month
Since I last blogged. Where did July go? I'll tell you--in a blur of traveling and hostessing. The first weekend in July I spent out on Long Island, unfortunately not going to the beach as much as I'd planned. Consequently, it is end-of-mid-summer and I am still as pale as the day I was born. Ok, well actually I was a little yellow when I was born. So I'm paler than that. Sad. Must work on this.
The next weekend, I spent at the newlyweds' house, at an awesome party. Em & M had a bunch of booze leftover from the wedding, so, naturally, they needed to throw a bash (or as my mom would say, "drinking party") to get rid of it. Happily, despite the copious amounts of beer and alcohol consumed that weekend, they still have a mountain of it left. So, come mid-August I will be back in MD for another legendary party (well, definitely to the party, hopefully to the legendary).
The next weekend, Em, M and A traveled to my place for the weekend. On Friday we opted for a typical New York City Friday night. Best. Night. In. NYC. Ever. We started out at SoHo Park (thanks, Caitlin Carlson for cluing me into that one) where we sat outside, which looked less like "outside" than the inside did, due to the restaurants' theme of Park (benches, trees, twinkle lights) and had awesome burgers and tried fried zucchini (better than fried pickles).
Then we walked across the street to Delicatessen. They had a speak-easy style bar downstairs which, unfortunately was only open for about 10 minutes after we got there. So we moved into the glassed-in courtyard and got to lounge on padded benches while looking up at the buildings surrounding us. We ended up at Eight Mile Creek, an Australian restaurant with pub below decks. The last time I was there, I legit felt like I was in the bush. It was dingy and empty and I heard Australian accents as I went down the stairs. This time, it was absolutely packed and pounded with hip hop beats. And Lady Gaga, of course. We saw that guy from that movie--you know the one? Yeah, I didn't really either. Good job, Mike for pointing him out. Turns out his name was Josh Gad, and he was the dorky friend in "21" and the dorky brother in "Love & Other Drugs" (sidenote: saw that with my parents. BAD MOVE). So anyway, he was gladhanding some patrons, but left soon after we got there. Too bad, because I bet I could've gotten him to buy at least one of us a drink.
We left the pub at around 2, got into a cab back uptown, in which we had some excellent adventures--me tipsily shushing Mike when he mentioned too loudly that he didn't think our cabbie spoke English and venturing across the unfortunately-named intersection of Dyckman St and Seaman St (just one block from Cummings).
Other adventures followed that weekend. Short version: big whales, John Lennon, ghosts and homemade Oreo milkshakes. Good times.
This past weekend, my mom came to visit to a. bring me more stuff for my apartment and b. help celebrate my birthday. After this weekend, my apartment looks awesome, and I finally feel like I live here. Y'all should come see.
Also after this weekend, I am 23. Boo- to the ya. Andrew came early yesterday to go to church and brunch with us. Then, after my mom left, he took me to dinner at Bleu Evolution on 187th. Cool atmosphere. Bordello-meets-grandma's attic. Andrew didn't realize what a bordello was when he picked the place. The red velvet curtains, fish-netted leg lamp and my extensive vocabular-ical knowledge (yes, my vocabular-ical knowledge is so vast, it includes the word "vocabular-ical") quickly brought him up to speed.
A quick recap of birthday loot before I go: from my parents, sibs and sib-in-law, a kick-butt bistro table for my kitchen. I now have a place to prepare dinner! And it is super cute: a red and orange tile table with a flower design and two matching chairs.
From Andrew, a canvas wall-hanging made from a photo I took. He picked one of my PODs (which, I know haven't been posted since a really long time ago) and turned it into a real piece of art. It looks awesome--almost semi-professional. It was super thoughtful and really unique. And it's doubly awesome because it means maybe I'm getting the hang of this photography thing!
So that's about it. A really long excuse for why I haven't blogged in almost a month. I'll try to be better about that, especially since I'm considering starting a new blog. Stay tuned!
The next weekend, I spent at the newlyweds' house, at an awesome party. Em & M had a bunch of booze leftover from the wedding, so, naturally, they needed to throw a bash (or as my mom would say, "drinking party") to get rid of it. Happily, despite the copious amounts of beer and alcohol consumed that weekend, they still have a mountain of it left. So, come mid-August I will be back in MD for another legendary party (well, definitely to the party, hopefully to the legendary).
The next weekend, Em, M and A traveled to my place for the weekend. On Friday we opted for a typical New York City Friday night. Best. Night. In. NYC. Ever. We started out at SoHo Park (thanks, Caitlin Carlson for cluing me into that one) where we sat outside, which looked less like "outside" than the inside did, due to the restaurants' theme of Park (benches, trees, twinkle lights) and had awesome burgers and tried fried zucchini (better than fried pickles).
Then we walked across the street to Delicatessen. They had a speak-easy style bar downstairs which, unfortunately was only open for about 10 minutes after we got there. So we moved into the glassed-in courtyard and got to lounge on padded benches while looking up at the buildings surrounding us. We ended up at Eight Mile Creek, an Australian restaurant with pub below decks. The last time I was there, I legit felt like I was in the bush. It was dingy and empty and I heard Australian accents as I went down the stairs. This time, it was absolutely packed and pounded with hip hop beats. And Lady Gaga, of course. We saw that guy from that movie--you know the one? Yeah, I didn't really either. Good job, Mike for pointing him out. Turns out his name was Josh Gad, and he was the dorky friend in "21" and the dorky brother in "Love & Other Drugs" (sidenote: saw that with my parents. BAD MOVE). So anyway, he was gladhanding some patrons, but left soon after we got there. Too bad, because I bet I could've gotten him to buy at least one of us a drink.
We left the pub at around 2, got into a cab back uptown, in which we had some excellent adventures--me tipsily shushing Mike when he mentioned too loudly that he didn't think our cabbie spoke English and venturing across the unfortunately-named intersection of Dyckman St and Seaman St (just one block from Cummings).
Other adventures followed that weekend. Short version: big whales, John Lennon, ghosts and homemade Oreo milkshakes. Good times.
This past weekend, my mom came to visit to a. bring me more stuff for my apartment and b. help celebrate my birthday. After this weekend, my apartment looks awesome, and I finally feel like I live here. Y'all should come see.
Also after this weekend, I am 23. Boo- to the ya. Andrew came early yesterday to go to church and brunch with us. Then, after my mom left, he took me to dinner at Bleu Evolution on 187th. Cool atmosphere. Bordello-meets-grandma's attic. Andrew didn't realize what a bordello was when he picked the place. The red velvet curtains, fish-netted leg lamp and my extensive vocabular-ical knowledge (yes, my vocabular-ical knowledge is so vast, it includes the word "vocabular-ical") quickly brought him up to speed.
A quick recap of birthday loot before I go: from my parents, sibs and sib-in-law, a kick-butt bistro table for my kitchen. I now have a place to prepare dinner! And it is super cute: a red and orange tile table with a flower design and two matching chairs.
From Andrew, a canvas wall-hanging made from a photo I took. He picked one of my PODs (which, I know haven't been posted since a really long time ago) and turned it into a real piece of art. It looks awesome--almost semi-professional. It was super thoughtful and really unique. And it's doubly awesome because it means maybe I'm getting the hang of this photography thing!
So that's about it. A really long excuse for why I haven't blogged in almost a month. I'll try to be better about that, especially since I'm considering starting a new blog. Stay tuned!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Despite All This, I Still Pretty Much Like Myself
A family asked me for an interview! The position wouldn’t be ideal—a Saturday and Sunday nanny position, which means I’d be working 7 days a week—but I think an interview is a good start.
I also have an interview at a dance studio tomorrow. I’d really like to get that job, but since I can’t work the next two weeks, I’m not so sure that’ll work out. Here’s something I’ve noticed about myself. I have an overdeveloped talent for working myself into a state. Give me a tiny mosquito bite and I will scratch it and irritate it and let it bother me until it looks like a red golf ball on the side of my arm. That’s a metaphor—mountains out of molehills stuff, you know. But what I mean is—I worry about everything. An inordinate amount of worrying. I can’t just let something be for a while.
And thus, I find myself frantically applying for jobs at which I won’t even be able to start for three weeks. Who is going to hire a part-time worker who can’t start for three weeks? Answer: nobody. So why am I even bothering at this point? I told my parents that I would start pounding the pavement at the end of July, after my two consecutive weekends with Mike and Emily were over, and I’d actually be able to start working again. But money is tight, so I jumped the gun. And now I’ll look like a doofus in both these interviews.
Why do I let myself get into these situations? Recently, I told Andrew that if I was independently wealthy, I would worry a lot less. He said, “No, you wouldn’t. You’d find stuff to worry about. ‘Am I paying the correct amount of taxes?’ ‘Do people hate me because I’m rich?’ ‘Am I giving enough money away to charity?’”
I realized he’s totally right. I could worry about anything. I’ll be the only angel in Heaven who can’t just relax (assuming, of course, that I make it up there. But, probably I’m destined for Hell, if only because Satan could so easily create a personalized eternity of misery for me—just tell me that because I died, something bad will happen to someone else, and I’ll be off, worrying myself miserable for the rest of time. It wouldn’t even be sporting, how easily Satan could torture me.)
But anyway, I worry too much. Normally, this would be the point where I make a vow to calm down. But I’m practically 23 now. I am who I am, and that’s who I’ll probably be for the rest of my life. I just have to resign myself that I’ll forever be a lazy, worrywart complainer who doesn’t exercise and judges strangers harshly. I can only hope that it’s part of my charm.
To quote the musical RENT (which I don’t even like): “Take me for what I am, who I was meant to be.”
I guess I’ll have to take me, baby, cause I don’t think I can leave me.
*NOTE* The title of this post is to act as a disclaimer because, despite my shortcomings, I think I'm pretty cool most of the time, and I didn't want anyone thinking I'm all down on myself, when really, I'm just very self-aware. : )
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