I have a social media problem. Primarily instagram. I’m not afraid to admit it. What I AM afraid of, however, is the damage it is doing to me as a young woman and a human being. And while I am in this inbetween season of my life wherein I am trying to get a better and healthier grasp of my mental health, preparing for funeral board exams, and eventually finding a place in the funeral industry, I have promised to come clean and honest with every mental and emotional problem that I endure or suffer, in the event that me spilling my guts could possibly help someone else. There isn’t much that I can do right now, other than wait for life to open the next door. So here goes.

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For the first three months of our relationship, I probably tried to break up with Tyler at least 400 times.

“We have different thoughts about politics, we should break up.”

“The sky is blue, we should break up.”

“The cat yawned, we should break up.”

Any excuse, any absolutely asinine reasoning that my mind fell to, I was ready to bail. And holy shit – after he told me that he LOVED me?! Instead of feeling joy, I felt panic. I felt fear. I felt an enormous sense of responsibility. I felt, more than anything, incapable. What had I done? I couldn’t do this. This was too much, I wasn’t ready, it would never work, I would just get hurt. I came home and went over and over us with my fine tooth “should we break up” comb and tried to beg a reason into existence. In those early days, I asked my mom, my brother, every friend I had, “do you think Tyler and I should break up?” and they all just stared at me like I had grown a second head and told me to calm myself down because he was an incredible person.

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Around the time that I had my first period, I also grew a small, dark beard.

You can imagine how delightful THAT was – I was an overweight tweenager who was constantly bullied for my looks (fat, brace face, too tall, not wearing the right clothing) and my desperate affection for the band Hanson that somehow was enough to warrant near daily physical threats of violence. Even the uncool thought I was uncool.

I admit, I was a tad thrown re: the beard. I’d been to sex ed and I knew all about and expected the period business – but I was not prepared to develop what was a nearly full mustache and beard seemingly overnight, and I did not think the two had any distinct connect (spoiler alert – they totally do). I vividly remember sitting across from a friend at McDonald’s after we saw a movie on a Friday night and she motioned to the mustache and beard with her finger in a way that can only be described as “delicately concerned” and she asked “so … what’s that about?”

Well, I had no clue. I presented it to my mother curiously in its various stages of growth, my panic increasing as the beard threatened to take over both town and country, and she would hand me a pair of tweezers, because what else do you do with your 12 year old’s small beard? I would try to maintain it, but sadly, it grew at such a rate that a pair of tweezers were nothing compared to its ferocity.

Excitingly, not long after the beard appeared, a pair of sideburns started to grow in. You can only imagine my joy! Not only was I suddenly ballooning in size – my weight was more unsteady than the last shambles of a well-played Jenga game – my beard, sideburns, and mustache were well on their way to connecting into a full LEWK. I wore my hair down constantly, tried to avoid fluorescent lighting, and hoped and prayed I would look super fat in my jeans and that would attract more attention from my tormenters than my hairy predicament.

It never really occurred to me to dial up on AOL and ask Jeeves why I was starting to rival a member of ZZ Top, because that’s not really how life worked back then. I just accepted the hand I’d been dealt and that really seemed to work, because for a while, no one really mentioned it (perhaps they were just as stunned as I was and didn’t know how to formulate an insult).

Not you, though. You always noticed everything about me, I SWEAR, I’d come around you and pray beforehand that you wouldn’t notice what I had to hide or what I felt ashamed of, and it’d be the first thing you mentioned, like you could read my mind. We would meet you and the rest of the family and as I grew closer, you’d already be smirking like the cheshire cat, and I would hang my head and wait for whatever you planned to deal out to be over.

Every Friday night, my family met at a restaurant called Pelham Palace, run by the sweetest Greek family that we had grown close to over the years. We always sat at the same table, and we never missed a Friday – it was our time to see each other after the long week and catch up. There was a beautiful boy that worked there and I had the biggest crush on him. You knew that, and it was such a game for you.

In my attempt to try to fit in with what everyone else was wearing, I wore men’s boot cut jeans that I hoped resembled bell bottoms (they so didn’t). Fashionable plus size clothing literally did not exist when I was young, so I had two pairs of men’s jeans that I alternated every day, and each pair had a “hammer” holder on the side of one of the legs. When we would head to the counter to pay each week, you would grab me by the “hammer” and pull me as I tried to walk, and I would stumble, in a blubberly slow motion, with you only stopping when you succeeded in tripping me in front of the boy I had a crush on. I remember struggling to get away from you and what it felt like to be so damn embarrassed like that, with everyone who could see us staring unabashedly at the display.

The jeans tided you over for awhile, but one Friday – you spotted it. The beard. You didn’t outright say anything, that wasn’t your style. You started to call me Billy Goat. You started to call me Beardly. I begged you to stop, to not talk about it, but you would stare at me from down the table and stroke your own beard.

“Soon your sideburns will really come in and you’ll have a beard as good as mine!” You’d say.

“Please let me shave my beard so _____ can’t make fun of me tonight.” I started to beg my mother before dinner. I had been shaving my legs for awhile, so I didn’t understand why I couldn’t shave my beard, too.

“You can’t do that, the hair on your face is different than the hair on your legs, and if you shave it, it will come in darker.” she apologized. Well, the last thing in the world I wanted was a worse beard, so I felt stuck.

After one particularly brutal exit wherein you lead me by my beard out of the restaurant in front of all of the waiting patrons and my crush, mom had an idea – we went right to Wal-Mart to get some Nair. I can still smell it, can still feel it, goopy and cold as I slathered thick coats over my mustache, my sideburns, my beard. It worked, but not for long enough – the hairs would sprout back in almost immediately, and the constant five o’clock shadow was nearly as horrendous as the beard itself.

One night after another core-shaking, humiliating Friday dinner, I snuck in the bathroom, drew water in the sink, and defiantly took the razor to my face. Angry, broad, carless strokes, I didn’t care – it just HAD. TO. GO.

The next Friday night, I felt like I could breathe for the first time in months. But, lo and behold, it didn’t matter that my face was smoother than a baby’s ass now. You still called me Beardly , did so well into my teens, now adding a series of oinks while you did it, as my weight continued to spike. You still stroked your face while looking at mine, like you were telling me that you could still see it: the shame, the embarrassment.

I try not to actively be around you much anymore, because you make us all miserable, you hold us all hostage with your judgement and moods and attitudes, but for some reason, like the literal victims of abuse that we all are, we still try to dance in hopes of making you clap your fat little hands. You came to dinner with the family last night, and I watched you laugh at me when I offered my small, polite, educated response to your question of why I would protest the president when he comes to town. You laughed bodily, your nose in the air, silencing me immediately, my words dead in my throat. You belittled me in front of the whole family while rattling off to me the reasons why I’m not allowed to have valid thoughts, feelings, or deductions regarding our political climate. I felt so small, like me and my sad ole beard did all those years ago, like you were dragging me to hell and back with the hammer pants. I could feel the shame burning in my face as I tried to smile and not let the tears that threatened to spill pour right out, and I turned myself off and agreed with everything you said – and I STILL called you “sir” out of respect as you ripped my little snowflake ass to shreds.

I came home and I felt this overwhelming sense of unrest, of upset, like a dam had burst within me. I thought long and hard about you. I thought about how many times you’ve called me a felon or an inmate, because I have dyed hair and tattoos. I thought of when you told me that you weren’t having “f*gs” over to your house for Thanksgiving, so my best friend wasn’t welcome. I thought about how you still make fun of me to this day for the trouble that I got into when I was SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD. I thought about last fourth of July, when you said in front of the whole family and our guests that I was not even good enough to be raped. I thought about how I’ve been answering to “Asshole” and “Assley” since I was a child. I thought about how you used to brag about seeing my Dad at work, and I’d try to act like I didn’t care that you brought him up, but I’d still casually ask you about him and you’d dummy right up, keep every tidbit to yourself, because you’re so selfish that you can’t even let a child whose father left her have any minor detail about him.

I thought about my fucking beard. My poor, sad beard. And of how scared I was of you then, how I never spoke up because I was confused and it hurt – you used to be someone who was fun, you were my friend – you had a water bed and let me name the cat, you got me my PeeWee Herman doll – and somehow you had instead become the cruelest person who has never once refrained from telling me how wrong or stupid I am. I thought about how what you did to me was abuse. What I endured from you was constant abuse. It isn’t the way you are, the way you joke, any of the excuse the family has offered for you over the years. It is and has always been terrible abuse.

I see you in the mirror every day, when I shave my face. I still have to do that, because I would eventually grow up and find out that I have an ovarian disease that causes facial and body hair growth. You are a man who made fun of a sick child for sport. I grew up to have a phobia of having my face and throat touched that is so intense that I feel immediate nausea whenever any well-intentioned person attempts to brush an eyelash off my cheek. What was it for? What did you gain by doing this to me?

I used to think that family was an obligation, a blood debt that you honored above all things, no matter what. You have taught me otherwise. I asked myself what I would do if a friend of mine had treated me the way you have – and the answer was clear cut. I would remove that person from my life immediately. If I had asked you the same question you asked me last night, if you felt so passionately against something that you wanted to protest it, the difference between you and I is that I’d really want to know why you felt that way, because I would know that you were hurting and I’d want to help.  And I would listen to you. Even if I thought it was the stupidest thing in the world, I would listen. I guess the last thing that I have to say about you is what you hurled against me, when I didn’t fold right over immediately, when I tried, for once, to speak up for myself – “there are some people who aren’t even worth talking to because you’ll never change them.”

Beardly, out.


I used to think you lavender

And myself a shade of blue

Because when you came round

You lit me up

And replaced my blue with you

Lavender was all I craved

Steadiness, warmth, and calm

When you called out to me

It was your lavender I slipped on

You waved away my cloudy days

With just a flick of your hand

You steadied all my careless ways

And helped me understand

It was okay to be blue, you’d say

After your fourth or fifth beer

Just don’t get too crazy, babe

You’d remind me with a jeer

I lay with you in your bed at night

Knowing I wasn’t the only one

Who laid at night with lavender

True blue, I bit my tongue.

Days to weeks and weeks to months

And now it has been years

I’m always blue, and only blue

Until lavender reappears

So many times I’ve wondered

And then I’ve stopped myself

Was I truly blue when you found me?

Or did you declare me blue yourself?

Was it my state of being

Or an opening you saw –

Was I ever something other than blue

Or were you the blue one after all?

That’s the funny thing about time

And growing past a problem

You start to see with clarity

You start to learn to solve them

If I saw you now, you’d smile that smile

That you saved just for me

And I know I’d squint and

For just a moment

The predator would be me

I loved you once

And I swear some days

I wish I could turn back time

But I stop myself, remembering

How blue you made my mind

Because that’s the thing

That took so long

For me to understand –

You were the rough and bellowing sea

And I was the safety of land.

I thought it was in reverse

You the savior, I the damned

But when the fog cleared

And the sky beamed down

I saw it was all lavender in my hands

The house to ourselves, the captain’s chair

You called me “Pink” to all your friends

A knowing look, your strut, your sway –

Third Eye Blind’s “Dopamine” on replay

The bad was bad and the good was good

And that’s all I can let it be

In the succession of your blue girls

I never fell in line

I protested, I fought for myself

And now color is mine

I found out what you never wanted me to know

The truth you kept under your thumb

The lavender was always me

It was you who was blue all along



I always know where the bathroom is
In every building that I go
I always know where the bathroom is
Because that is where I’m safe, I know

I always know where the bathroom is
Flushed red chest and wild eyes
I always know where the bathroom is
Where I can pretend I’m not alive

I always know where the bathroom is
Sweat trickling to the cold tile floor
I always know where the bathroom is
Escape just behind the lock of a door

I always know where the bathroom is
Murmured conversation all around
I always know where the bathroom is
The place where I’m allowed to be upside down

I always know where the bathroom is
Hand to the wall, breathe in, breathe out
I always know where the bathroom is
Where my mind is free to shout

I always know where the bathroom is
A concerned friend texting from outside
I always know where the bathroom is
My head pressed between my thighs, “Oh, I’m fine!”

I always know where the bathroom is
You see, that’s where I stay
I always know where the bathroom is
There’s nothing else, game over, no other way.


So, I was fired from the funeral home.


One day shy of the one year anniversary of the first time I was fired.

Ahhhh, life. You never, ever, ever fail to keep me on my toes.

I missed class yesterday morning, which never happens. I set my alarm for the wrong time, I mixed up my days, totally goofed – but this meant that I could go into work early, and I was really excited to go into work. I miss work, I hate that school takes me away from work and that I don’t get to be as present as I want to be, as involved as I long to be. I didn’t text Tom and tell him that I was sneaking in a few hours early because I wanted to surprise him. Yesterday was the first day that felt like fall to me, the leaves are starting to change, the air was nice and cool, the sun was bright. I felt fine, I remember thinking that – I feel fine today.  I walked into the funeral home with a vial of shaved citrine in my hand (said to bring success in ones career) and an Elvis magnet, stoked to add them to the rest of the oddities collected on my desk.

I made it as far as the doorway. I didn’t even get to put my bag down.

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I have been living with a pain in my neck and shoulders for the past few days that feels like some sort of stress-born entity has planted roots and taken up a permanent residence inside of me, tendrils coiling lovingly around the knobs of my spine. Very matter of factly did it move in, like I had no choice or say in it at all. I never even thought to fight it, never even thought I had the right to. I am and always was bound to be the corporeal home of this being – was always meant to carry this weight.

I lay in my bed and I study the world around me through the tiny screen that is my way out – I compare, I compare, I hate myself, I hate everything about who I am. How did all of these lucky people that I know get to become able, capable, confident? What exactly is it that happened to me to make me so hard on myself? I try to look back on my life and pinpoint it – was it a childhood trauma,  some deep, emotional disturbance? I don’t know. But every day feels like I’m tip-toeing closer to the edge of a cliff.

What happens next? What do I do? Who am I? I don’t know.

Agitated, agitated. I’m happiest alone, but I crave motion, company. Stillness makes me nervous. I don’t feel like myself anymore, I haven’t for years – I constantly think back to the “old me” and wish I could find her again, she was fun, she was free, she wasn’t afraid. Instead I feel restless, old, stuck, uneasy, caged – I can NEVER see the forest for the trees. Summer is hard for me – summer is always hard for me. I want to say that I am not okay, I want to scream it as loud as I can until someone hears me, but I can’t find my voice, and even if I somehow could, what would matter? What would change? Those who want to help me annoy me most. I’m too tired to talk, it takes too much energy to try to make anyone understand that I feel like I’m already gone.

I am aware that time is flying and I can feel it, sticky and hot, as it rushes by and sucks the breath out of me, but somehow I still seem to be exactly where I’ve always been, watching everyone else pass me by.

Always watching.

Jealousy and spite are getting the best of me, I am a bent and bowed creature, labored and wanting. I don’t want to work, I don’t want to fight, I don’t want to do anything at all. I feel dumb, sluggish, my once attractive features warped into a constant ugliness that is all that I can ever see or fixate on. If I could pick myself to death, skin clean from the bones, I would, and with a smile.

I have lost sight, I have lost hope, I am unfocused. I search for answers, I have no answers, there are no damn answers. I hurt and I hurt and I hold it because I can’t bear to share it, can’t stand the feeling of my guts hitting the floor as I pour them out.



I’ll be thirty soon. In just a little over 3 months.

It feels hard to believe and also just right, you know? Like, wow. I can’t believe I’m not 11 and listening to Hanson and waiting for Taylor Hanson to eventually deflower me. And also like wow, I can’t believe I’m 29 and listening to Hanson and still wish it had been Taylor Hanson who deflowered me. Somewhere in between all that.

I’ve become quite introspective as my twenties have gradually started to draw to a close, which I feel is probably very normal – sometimes I look back at the last decade and ask myself “what the hell did you waste all that marvelous, youth-laden time for? You should have done so much more!” And other times, I look back and I laugh and cry and thank God Almighty that I have seen and done so many of the things that I have, because life moves so quickly that sometimes I forgot how great it has been – and truly, life has been kind of wild.

Though I’m reaching this milestone birthday that (to me, at least) is supposed to really signify the crossover into full blown adulthood, this place where I should be totally together and everything everyone expects of me – there are times where I feel less sure of who I am than ever before. Truth be told, I never really know what to think of myself.  Do any of us? Perhaps this is the last great hang up of my twenties – perhaps it will take much, much longer to figure out. I recognize that I get caught up a lot in living a social media life. I want my life to look pretty and I want you all to think that I’m interesting and fun and worthy of love, and I want to be someone that you want to know. I am very lonely a lot of the time, many times when surrounded by people I love – but I don’t want you all to think of me as lonely. I want to talk to you about my mental health problems, but I worry that I’ll do or say something and you’ll think I’m just “crazy”. And most of all, I worry that you think something must be wrong with me because I am single. That’s the greatest worry of all. Sometimes I want to show up on the internet performing tricks, juggling fire, belting arias, anything just to distract you from the fact that I’m single – because it makes me feel different. And feeling different makes me feel bad.

So I worry. And that’s silly, isn’t it? To worry about what people MIGHT be thinking of you. But boy, I am the queen of it.

There are many days where I struggle with who I am and with my life’s path, because let’s face it – three months won’t make me a together kind of girl. I won’t magic myself into adulthood just because the calendar says so. And I feel like a lot of times, I don’t have many people to turn to for guidance – I just don’t know any other morbidly obese, lipstick fiending, bipolar morticians who burst into tears at even the thought of Elton John… I’m kind of my own species, it feels like. I envy those who are excitedly getting married and having children right now, because that is so very, very adult. No one could ever question those people because they are doing typical adult things, and that makes them official adults, right? It is ridiculous to feel this way, because I’m literally envious of people who are getting things that I don’t want – but what I do want is to feel normal, and there are a lot more save the dates and baby bumps out there than there are morbidly obese, lipstick fiending, bipolar morticians. I’m not kidding when I say that sometimes it is my biggest shame that I am not another wife in a Lilly Pulitzer dress getting excited over flatware – I wish I had that in me, but it’s like a synapse that is misfiring – I can’t will myself to be her. I constantly try to cover up my life like a cat turd, because somehow I’ve convinced myself I should be ashamed of it. I still catch myself willing life to fast forward to the “good part” where I magically become some normal person who isn’t always so very, very, THIS.

But on good days, on days where I haven’t sunk too low into my worries, I try to grab ahold of myself, shake myself by the shoulders and remind myself that what I constantly  fail to acknowledge is that this IS the good part. It’s MY good part. And it doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s good part.

Like I said, on a good day, when there are no triggers or setbacks or tensions, I love my life with such ferocity that my heart could burst. I feel gifted, truly, with the one thing that shames me the most: being single. If the perfect man or woman comes along for me, that’s bitchin, and I’ll be stoked – but that relationship could never be more valuable than the one that I’ve been building with myself as I am forcibly dragged into adulthood. There’s a reason I’m single,  and I’m not ashamed of it (at least not today – it’s a good day) – I’VE GOT MORE TO LEARN FIRST. I’ve got further to journey before someone else can come along, because I am, for some reason, lucky enough to be given both the gift of self knowledge, and the time required to truly learn who you are. I know that by society’s standards, I’m supposed to be a wife and a mom by now, and growing up, I never really thought either way about what would happen to me when I got older, but I assumed it would look like everyone else’s life – and the moment I realized that it didn’t and that it wouldn’t, well, I have been scrambling to camouflage my oddities ever since.

But really – when you divorce yourself from what you think your life should look like and focus on what actually makes you happy and who you want to be (and not who you want people to think you are), there is this freedom that you would have never ever been able to dream of. My grasp of this concept ebbs and flows, depending on the day. There is sadness, too, when you align yourself with this line of thinking, because with that acceptance also comes a certain type of goodbye to a person you’ll never be – goodbye, Ashley in a Lilly Pulitzer dress, picking out shades of paint for the guest bedroom – but the pain feels worth it, somehow. Like that girl had to die so I could truly live. I mean, that’s sort of harsh, but you feel me. I’ll never know (well, I guess I will, I’ll ask Jesus about it after I die, right after I ask him who really killed Jon Benet Ramsey) why I’m meant to be eternally marching to the beat of my own drum, but who knows – maybe I’ll magically figure it out when I turn 30. For now, I’ll just keep wondering and marching. Well, maybe I’ll march more towards October – it’s getting hot outside here and I’d like to avoid boob sweat.

What I wish I could stop being ashamed of is simply just being who I am and feeling the need to explain away all of the things that I see as flaws – how the hell did I get to be this way?! Why am I the rudest person my self has ever encountered? And what I need to constantly remember is to STOP COMPARING MY LIFE TO OTHER PEOPLE!! We can all be happy and different and it doesn’t make me less to be just one person and not part of a pair. If the greatest relationship I ever have is with myself, then that’s awesome. If I find someone else who is a match for me, that’s awesome, too. But this mentality of thinking that I’m not enough or not on the same level as my peers because I don’t have a baby or a husband/wife – I hope that toxic thinking is the first damn thing to go when I turn 30. Because I’m more than enough. Hell, I’m too much – and not even in a braggy way. Just literally. I’m exhausting.

Above all things, I just want to  be grateful for this season of MY life – all seasons, really. Things seem so difficult and meaningless and frustrating all of the time, and I complain the days away and bitch about what is and what isn’t – but if I had to be honest and sum my life up with one word (other than “lipstick”), the first thing that comes to mind is “fortunate”, and that kind of blows me away, you know? I was so surprised, when it appeared, quite taken aback – but then  I nodded to myself. Yeah. Fortunate. Sounds about right.  


Summertime Sadness

Well, it is unofficially and undeniably already here – my very own case of summertime sadness (thanks, Lana, for giving such a clever name to that listless and unfulfilled feeling that haunts me from late May until early September).

I’ve got a lot going on these days. I’m working full-time as apprentice funeral director/embalmer, I’m going to school full-time (which involves traveling an hour and a half away twice a week to Piedmont Tech for biology classes after work – meaning I don’t get home until nearly 11 PM at night) – this plus the rest of the coursework for other classes and trying to maintain sanity as I learn an entirely new career that isn’t quite so simple (I mean, embalming a human body is a little more complicated than working as a cashier at Target, and I can say that with confidence, as I have done both) – my point being, I don’t feel good. I’m stressed, and stress is hard for me, because I take it to a bad place. I take it to a place of blame and self doubt and it is truly the sickest and cruelest thing I could ever do to myself. I feel sad a lot lately. I feel overwhelmed and stretched thin and all of the things that I love seem to go abandoned – like blogging, reading, crafting, etc. I know – at least I hope and pray – that all of this will be worth it in the end, when I have that degree and my apprenticeship is complete, but it is hard to give away your time when you feel like you have none to give, I guess. Especially now, during my personal hardest time of the year.

I’ve always been prone to summertime sadness – while everyone else is orgasming at the first mention of summer rolling in, I withdraw, isolate myself, go away inside – I’m mean, snappy, frustrated easily, angry – I don’t know why this is. I just know that I have never felt joy in this time. It has always felt like something to be suffered (probably because I have the good common sense to be revolted by 95 degree heat). And mentally, as far as my levels and mania and ups & downs go – this is where I always find myself at my worst and most desperate. So to have an already heaping amount of external stress dumped on top of a place where I’m already trying to hold a hand over an open wound in myself feels like a mountain I’m too tired to climb again this year. Already, my teeth are gritted, shoulders hunched, “can’t can’t can’t can’t” a steady mantra on repeat in my mind.

I thought that taking a mini vacation to Disney World before this semester began would be a really good thing for me, and in some ways it was (pics to come later) – I flew again for the first time in years and got over that major fear (HALLELUJAH), and that felt AMAZING – plus I had a great time with my best friends at one of my favorite places in the universe, so you really can’t complain about that. Sadly, some “triflin’ shit” got in the way of pure & total rest & bliss, and it put quite a bit of a damper on my relaxation, but that was also a learning opportunity, too, which I’m grateful for – I’m quite used to trying to constantly be everything for everyone, and I worry to the moon and back about everyone’s happiness but my own. Fortunately, the aforementioned “triflin’ shit” helped me to put my foot down and realize that sometimes I deserve to be happy, too. And I think that was a big step for me – and having that notion cinched in my mind is something I’m going to carry with me into the summertime sadness – I DESERVE TO BE HAPPY, TOO. There. I said it. It’s on the internet, so it must be true.

I think something important for me, at least during my bouts of summertime sadness, is to be mindful of my triggers, so I can at least step around the landmines as best I can vs losing my damn leg to one. But how to get past the depression? That, I have no clue. This is how I always end up around the beginning of September plotting my suicide and being irrational and out of control to the point that none of us – my family, my friends, myself – know how to handle me- I get so down that I can’t see up, only straight ahead.

I guess I just wanted to chat with myself on my blog and rationalize what I’m feeling. The first step to getting over or past any hurdle is to accept it, and I accept it – I’ve got the damn summertime sadness. It’s a real thing, it’s valid, and I’ve got to somehow gird my loins and try to make it through. And mostly I think I just needed a good whine, and writing always makes me feel better. I get so damn hung up about writing and trying to make it perfect, but none of it will ever be perfect – and I guess I’d rather post lots and lots of sullen or meaningless crap than look back and wish I had taken the time and wonder what I was thinking way back when.

Feel free to leave your favorite summer suggestions in the comments – just remember, I hate the outdoors, all people, places that aren’t air conditioned, and basically everything. Just kidding – I’d love to know your tips and tricks for summer fun – or, even more importantly, what helps you get through your own version of “summertime sadness”.

Till next time xx