That has nothing to do with this blog post, but I just—I—
I don’t know that I’m able to survive in a world where that type of thing can happen to a partially decent person.

Something else that has nothing to do with this blog post is how I’ve taped up the peephole on my front door. DID YOU KNOW THAT PEOPLE CAN BUY AN APPARATUS THAT ALLOWS THEM TO SEE INTO PEEPHOLES FROM THE OUTSIDE?

Yeah. Thank you, mediocre Netflix horror movie. I wasn’t neurotic enough.

So many unsettling things to process at once.


For the past several months, I’ve committed myself to improving my homemaking skills. Actually, no–not improving. Developing. Developing my homemaking skills. I had no skills! The extent of my cooking repertoire was omelets and avocado toast. I’ve killed every plant that I’ve ever been responsible for. By the end of the week, every week, my place was in shambles and I’d have to spend two hours every Sunday putting it back together.

Look, I don’t like to brag but if you’re looking for someone to completely wreck your house, you’ll never find anyone more qualified than me. I have thirty years of experience. I don’t know how my mom abstained from killing me when I was a kid. She would scream at me for soaking the bathroom after taking a shower, tripping over my shoes when she walked into the house, slamming her head into a cabinet door after I’d left it open, never cleaning underneath the toaster when I cleaned the kitchen counter. Seriously, what thirteen-year-old thinks to clean underneath things?

When I got my own place, some of it– most of it–continued. I took my shoes off as soon as I got into the house (and left them wherever I was standing). Depending on the day, I’d take my bra off immediately and throw it down. Same with my purse, keys, sunglasses, mail, etc. I’d wash clothes and leave them in the dryer until I needed them instead of putting them away. I’d open cabinet doors to get something and just leave them open (I stopped this only because when I later noticed the open cabinets I couldn’t remember if I was the responsible party or if there could possibly be a ghost in the house. See? Neurotic.)

But now… Now, kids, I’m like Louise freaking Jefferson. Wait, she had Florence. But you know what I mean. I cook, I clean, I organize. I live at Ikea at the moment. Decorative storage baskets, baking pans, shower caddies, shoe organizers–THEY HAVE EVERYTHING. I can now cook (baked and fried) chicken, seared salmon, and baked ziti. But I really shine at breakfast because I love me some eggs. So many egg dishes to master. They could keep me busy for a while.

I take my shoes to the closet (almost) right away now. I put things back immediately after using them. I dry off a little before stepping out of the shower. Who knew that was the secret to a dry bathroom? WHO KNEW? I put my clothes away when they’re done drying. I watch YouTube videos about cleaning and organizing. I’m soooooo adult.

My next big grown-up project will be preparing a three course meal for a dinner party.

You’re invited.

But don’t bring your bad-ass kids because my house is a GD museum.


A Non-Writing Writer

Sometimes people let the same problem make them miserable for years when they could just say, “So what.” That’s one of my favorite things to say. “So what.”     –Andy Warhol

I’ve forgotten how to write.

(See, right now I’m thinking, should I make that sentence its own paragraph? Do people do that? IS THAT OKAY?!“)

Writing for other people and profit changed my feelings on writing. It has, for some time now, been stressful and tedious. I had come to resent it.

But writing is very important to me and has been since I could read and write. I have logged into this blog every week and attempted to write something, but would invariably overthink it, then delete it, then grow more discontented.

I love writing. L-O-V-E. I’m always thinking up absurd stories when I’m in line at the bank, when I’m vacuuming, when I’m pretending to be asleep because I don’t feel like having sex falling asleep. I’m always thinking, I should write about that or I’m gonna blog about this. And then I sit down in front of the computer to write and get caught up in grammar and format and other stuff I never thought twice about. Part of it is my own fault for being judge-y about other people’s rampant and excruciating mistakes on, say, their Facebook posts. Look, I don’t want to be a stickler but commas and periods MEAN SOMETHING! You can’t just put them anywhere, gah!

Or maybe you can.

That’s kinda what I’ve settled on for the time being, because I love writing and I want to write, and I don’t want to have to think about it until I’m ripping my hair out. I’ve forgotten how to write. So what.

Life is hard. We lose people we love. Ice cream makes us fat. Friends and family hurt us. In the midst of all that, we hopefully have things that bring us happiness. And, for me, that’s writing.  So… I’m gonna write and keep on writing until I remember how to write for fun again.

ADDENDUM: But, really, you can’t just place commas and periods anywhere in a sentence. Don’t do that.