Thursday, September 29, 2011

Another season

My hockey season starts today.

It started 50 minutes ago, actually. When I was still at work.

I'm currently sitting at the rink. Cold. Waiting impatiently for my team to get off the damn ice. They have paperwork to sign in order to make us official.

In addition to being the goalie, I'm the paperwork girl.

I like hockey. I do. I like my teammates. I like the competition. The endorphins.

I'm the one and only goalie on my team.

That's what I don't like. Being a prisoner to my position. Always having to run my life by my hockey schedule.

I can't. I have a game.

I did that enough as a kid.

Every year for the past few years, I have started the season feeling uncertain that I even want to. I'm not sure the fun balances out the part where this feels like a job, an obligation.

A couple of good games and the feeling subsides.

A couple of bad one and it rages back.

Maybe it's winning that I truly love, not hockey. I'm not like my sister, Meg, who lives to play the game. Who played in college. Who coaches a youth team. Who never, never turns down a chance to skate.

I'm not like that.

But the season comes around and I don't have anything better to do - or so it seems, in the midst of summer when I commit - and so I play again. Mostly because I can't find a good reason not to.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

The Coach and the reality

While I haven't written much about The Coach, he's still around.

I haven't written much about The Coach because it feels somewhat risky, a little bit dangerous. It feels like I am inflating him to all of you and inflating him to myself and, the higher I lift him up, the greater distance he's going to fall.

The Coach is not my boyfriend. There is no commitment. He owes me exactly what I owe him: absolutely nothing. I do think that it is best that way -- for us to have declared ourselves a couple when he was on the verge of moving would have been foolish and unrealistic and really, really hard.

Not that this is easy.

This is not easy.

There have been a couple of of really, really nice articles written about him recently. He emailed them to me and they made me cry.

We hit an enormous bump in the road a few weeks ago. He did something stupid. I felt like I was drowning. He understood why I was disappointed.

He adds new friends on Facebook - girls, of course, I notice the girls and when they live close to him it makes me a little sick.

There is this one place at work that, when I walk there, I can't help but think of him. It's just a simple walkway, lined with windows, but every time I am there I remember walking there one day this summer and getting a text message from him. Confirming that he would be over that night. And I got that text message and looked up and caught my own eyes in the reflection of the window and I looked so happy. That's what I think about when I am there. How much easier it was, and how much happier I was, when I could leave work with the knowledge that, when I got home, he would be there.

And now he's not.

I adore him. I absolutely adore him. I adore him and I miss him every single day. And somehow I have to remain cognizant of our status and our distance and the reality that plays before me, not the romantic comedy that I am writing in my head.

Monday, September 26, 2011

TMI (apologies in advance)

Last Friday, I found myself at Victoria’s Secret getting measured and fitted for bras and, 10 days later, I’m still not sure how I ended up in that store and in that dressing room. I may have been transported by Bra Faeries or hit over the head and dragged to the store by the Bra Mafia. Because I swear that I didn’t go to the mall to get my goodies sized up. But, oh, I am so happy that I did.

Now, here’s the thing: I don’t really have boobs. I mean, I obviously do – it’s just that, well, they aren’t exactly the first thing you notice about me. Or the second. Or the tenth.

So, when the girl measured me and suggested the size she suggested, I told her that she was wrong.

“That doesn’t seem, um, close at all,” I told the girl. Who is a professional. Or as professional as a college kid working at VS in the mall can be.

But she sort of shrugged me off and started throwing bras at me.

Bras with a C cup, bitches. And an alarmingly small band size. And they actually fit.

Best trip to the mall ever.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Always another party

Lucy squealed when I told her my idea for her baby shower – a fondue party – so I know that I am on the right track.

Thank goodness. Because, up until recently, we were on no track at all. Lucy’s husband Chet, however, has caved in and is no longer having cultural issues with the idea of having a shower. Lucy, thankfully, is mulling over dates with her mother. I, finally, have hope that we can pull this off.

Sort of.

Lucy really, really doesn’t want to open gifts.

My cousin Mara didn’t open presents at her baby shower – it didn’t seem like any huge deal. But that was a coed fancy-schmancy We’re Having a Baby cocktail party; the guests were all too busy guzzling Prosecco and stuffing our faces with the fig and goat cheese flatbreads to notice. (Or maybe that was just me.)

Chances are that my mom and Lucy’s mom will hate this idea. And all people over a certain age. And some people under a certain age. But it’s what Lucy wants. How do you make everyone happy? I’m not sure if we’ll go the display shower route – telling people to bring their presents unwrapped and setting them out for all to admire – or putting a note in the invitation indicating that she’s not going to open gifts. Maybe Lucy will just do us all a favor and cave. I don’t know. I’m not the socially awkward one who is weirded out by the act of opening gifts. (Lucy’s description – not mine.) I’ll let her decide. And I will take the hit and look like the classless, tacky girl throwing her shower if it means she gets what she wants.

We also have the Colleen thing. Missing in action since June, she’s been a huge donkey during her best friend’s pregnancy. Lucy seems less than sure that she even wants her there. In the end, she’ll get an invite. And, damn, you would think that Colleen would feel pretty low when she gets an invitation in the mail to a shower that she didn’t even know was being planned.

But, then again, that would require her to think of someone other than herself and that is clearly not happening these days.

And, most importantly, I need to make a baby themed music mix. We can’t just play Britney’s “Baby One More Time” and Vanilla Ice’s “Ice, Ice Baby” on repeat.

Well, maybe we could. And see who stays at the party the longest. Survivor: Baby Shower. That would be memorable, right?

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

New surroundings

I’m moving in with my cousin Liz.

Her house is done. And fifteen minutes from my new job. And it has a room for me and a bathroom for me and her laundry room is upstairs. I won’t have to haul my laundry up and down the stairs. Hell yes, new construction geniusness.

Living where I live and commuting as much as I commute is silly. Renting elsewhere when I could stay with Liz – who, I’m sure, will appreciate the extra money – seems silly, too.

The lease on my apartment isn’t technically up until April, but someone wants to move in to my unit so I’m getting out (in mid-November) without paying a penalty which is HUGE. And moving before the weather gets completely snowalicious and craptastic and I spend 2 hours tackling my 35 minute commute, which is also HUGE. And I’ll obviously be spending less cash money on gas and living expenses. HUGE. And, as Liz moves in next week, I don’t have to make the move all in one painful weekend. HUGE.

I’m a little nervous about living with a roommate again. Especially a roommate who I adore like I adore Liz. I don’t want drama. And I definitely don’t want to compromise our friendship/cousinship. We managed to get along swimmingly in Switzerland and Italy – and travel always brings out the worst, right? – so I do not doubt that we will get along the vast majority of the time. But I fear that big blowout fight. Especially because I will certainly be the housemate with less power (you know, not owning the house and all).

And – this is ridiculous, but I am sort of ridiculous – I am totally bummed about how much of my stuff will be boxed up and packed away. My dishes and my stand mixer and my furniture and my décor – all of those things are me. And maybe we’ll find room for some of my things, but Liz has been planning out the interior of her house since the builders broke ground. It’s her house – she’s so excited about it and she should obviously decorate it how she wants to decorate it.

Overall, I think that it will be good for me. I’m not playing soccer at the moment, Colleen has disappeared off of the face of the earth, Lucy is pregnant and I’ve been pretty consistently and pretty overwhelmingly bummed out – those factors don’t lead to much of a social life. Liz – who is a few months older than me – is a lot more outgoing and more social than I am; I’m not planning on riding her coattails to the bar every weekend, but getting out on occasion would be normal and healthy.

I’m also jazzed up about the lack of a lease or any formal agreement tying me to Liz’s house for any set amount of time. When I decide I’m ready to buy a house, I can buy it. If I land a job that requires relocation, I can take it. It’s one less thing holding me back. And, right now, I am thriving on those mere possibilities – that maybe things are going to get better in ways that I do not expect and cannot anticipate. That maybe new surroundings are just the beginning of it.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

I was in Zurich (5 months ago)

I am totally kicking myself for not blogging about my trip to Switzerland and Italy when it was all fresh in my mind. You totally think that you’re going to remember every detail from every day and then you come home and life gets in the way and with every day that passes, the memories get a little less vivid.

But I do have pictures. Pictures that I’ve been meaning to share since May.

My cousin Liz was working in Lausanne, but I flew in and out of Zurich. It seemed like a good idea at the time: I would arrive in Zurich, spend part of the day getting to see the city and then hop on a train to Lausanne.

I failed to take into account my general exhaustion, having to find a suitcase locker, my complete ignorance of the German language and how much I would want to take a shower. Oh, and also the ridiculous blister that I developed on my heel before I even left Detroit that was such a pain that I paid approximately $21 for special blister band aids in the airport in Amsterdam because I was so bloody desperate for relief.

Anyway. Zurich. I spent a lot of time in Zurich searching for wifi so that I could email my mother and tell her that I had arrived safely and was, indeed, alive. (She’s always curious about that, being my mother and all.)

Other than that, I took myself on a little walking tour from a guide that I had found online. I wandered into the Fraumünster abbey, which has the most breathtakingly gorgeous stained glass windows that were designed by artist Marc Chagall. I sat in the pews and looked at the stained glass for a long, long time – thinking about Aunt Marie, who would have been so taken by both the beauty and the spirit of Fraumünster, and wiping away tears.

In my wanderings, I stumbled upon St. Peter Church of Zurich. The tower of St. Peter's Church is home to Europe's largest clock face and also happens to be a really great monument to navigate by, as my general exhaustion did not lead well to the effective use of navigational devices such as, you know, maps. Or common sense.

You may recall the circumstances under which I left for Switzerland: The Coach had recently come into the picture, I had quit my job and was on the verge of starting a new one and I was working really, really hard just to keep up with the pace of life. I didn’t get to plan out my day in Zurich (or the rest of my trip) as I would have liked. I’m sure I missed things that I would have liked to have seen. I’m sure I could have toured the city more efficiently. But, as it turned out, wandering with no expectations and no itinerary isn’t all that bad, either.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

I signed up for Match.*

I signed up for Match weeks and weeks and weeks ago, right after a few very wise pals told me to because I'm always very good at listening to the advice of my friends who always end up being right.**

I signed up because I am supposed to proceed with my life as though The Coach is never coming back which means, I think, that I can get away with sending him some cookies (cookies can be sent to someone who is never coming back, yes?) but also that I have to put myself out there for all of the single men of the world who are looking for slightly crazy, curly haired, bookworm girls with blue eyes and a wicked sweet tooth.**

I wasn’t convinced that I wanted to sign up for Match because, you know, it sort of seems like a lot of work and I was afraid that it would only result in a lot of mildly humiliating blog fodder and no potential Mr. Rights but then I had an epiphany and I said to myself, “Aly, suck it up. Grab the bull by the horns. Nothing good is going to comes to you while you are waiting for it to fall into your damn lap” and so then I whipped out my credit card (even though I wanted to spend my money on other things, such as nail polish and sports bras) and signed right up.***

And then I sat down with my best friend, Lucy, and we wrote a killer profile.**** Now I spend gobs of my free time communicating with eligible young men who I would otherwise not have a chance to meet and it is so, so fun because – among other things – it’s a good excuse to talk about myself. I love talking about myself! (See: having a blog.)*****

I’m still new to the Match thing but I'm pretty sure I love it. ******

**More lies.
****Fabrication. I actually discussed this with Lucy and she gave me a pass.

I know that I’m being a stubborn brat, but what I’m trying to say here is this: maybe it’s what I’m supposed to do, maybe it would be good for me, maybe I’m being stubborn, maybe this is why I deserve to be miserable and alone for the rest of my days – but I’m just not ready yet.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

The day The Coach left

It has been five weeks since The Coach left. It seems like he has been gone forever, not just five inconsequential weeks – 35 measly days. It seems like he just left. And sometimes, it seems like he is still here. But not most of the time. Most of the time, I’m acutely aware of how far away he is and how many time zones span between us and the seemingly endless number of days it will be until he’s home again.

The Coach left early on a Friday morning.

I saw him briefly that Thursday night before he left.

And it pretty much sucked as bad as I thought that it was going to suck. A lot. We both handled it the way that I expected that we would handle it. Stoically.

The night that we said goodbye was not a big, dramatic affair. I did not lie on the ground and sob uncontrollably while holding on tightly to his ankles. He did not punch a wall in a display of the deep, deep emotions that could not express.

It was quiet. It was sad. Neither of us said much, really, other than what we both already knew: that we would miss each other.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

You want a rambling, nonsensical update?

Yes, you do.

I neglected to tell you about my cousin Mara’s baby shower. Well, I’m not really sure I would call it a baby shower. It was more of a We’re Having a Kid! cocktail party in which gifts were brought but not opened. To describe it in one word: extravagant. Not that I’m surprised – that’s how her family does everything – but also I accidentally saw the bill and my eyes are still burning. (Later I accidentally told my mom what I accidentally saw on the bill.)

The baby shower/We’re Having a Kid! cocktail party was held at THE EXACT SAME TIME as the UM/Notre Dame football game. I am happy to report that:
a. the baby shower/We’re Having a Kid! cocktail party was held in a room that was mere steps from the restaurant’s bar and, as we did not need to witness the opening of any gifts or participate in any shower games, sneaking to catch updates of the game was quite painless.

Quote of the weekend: “I’m always impressed with men’s asses. I am always impressed with them. Not really with the big pecs or shoulders, but when they have muscular asses, I am always impressed.” –My Grandma the Troll

Training for next month’s half-marathon is going surprisingly well and I expect to suffer an injury any day now.

I had my first caramel apple of the fall! Okay, okay. I had my first two caramel apples of the fall. They were equally delicious.

I quieted my inner bitch and resisting holding a grudge against The Bully after our little disagreement on Monday. I apparently played my cards well because she came to work on Tuesday morning and started stroking my back (I nearly vomited) and telling me how sorry she was about what happened. Reports from my predecessor suggest that The Bully never once apologized to her.

I feel like I have a lot to write about but, when I sit down to write it just all comes out so bland and so boring. Consider this my official appeal for suggestions, otherwise you'll have 1,500 words on my housing situation sitting in your Google Reader. Maybe a few paragraphs on the weather, if we play our cards right. And my fantasy football team. Definitely post upon post about my fantasy football team.

Remember that care package I mailed a few weeks ago? It was received. It was appreciated. I picked out the perfect book for The Coach.

Of course I did.

I am a professional.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

First Impressions

This morning, I told a coworker about last night’s blowout. The coworker who had warned me about The Bully.

“Good for you,” she said.

A little while later, she came back into my office. “I have been thinking about that story you told me this morning,” she said to me. “I thought that you should know this. When you started here, I told (another coworker) that I was quite sure that you wouldn’t stand for being treated badly by (The Bully) like your predecessor did. And I was right.”

That was really nice to hear. Because I feel like a punching bag.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Not in the mood

I am not in the mood for bullshit.
I am not in the mood for catty comments under your breath and the half-assed "sorry, I guess that wasn't very professional of me" comments that follow.
I am not in the mood to watch your eyes get watery when I call you out on your blatent rudeness.
I am not in the mood to be manipulated.
I am not in the mood to be pushed around.

I know that you're the department bully.
I know that you pushed my predecessor to retirement.
Not me, sweetheart.
Not me.
Find someone else to push around.
It won't be me.

I am not playing your games.
I am not in the mood.
I am not in the mood for your commentary about my work. That I am too good, essentially. That I shouldn't step in to offer help. That I shouldn't make the extra effort because that embarrasses you. Because that makes you look bad.
I am not in the mood to listen to you insist that, no, we shouldn't work like a team. We're territorial animals. We're floating bubbles of knowledge. We're non-intersecting planes. We should never collaborate. Heaven forbid we collaborate.

Get over yourself. Get over your antiquated ideas about who should do what and when. Get over your fear that I am too fast, too good, too smart and too willing. Get over your fear that I'm so good that I make you look bad. You know what makes you look bad? Petty backstabbing because you're afraid.

I am not in the mood for your fears.
Get out of my way.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Yay family time

I will be the first to admit that I'm abnormally close to my family but even for someone like me -- three weeks shy of 29 and still haven't cut the umbilical cord -- there comes a time when you probably should stop going on roadtrips with your family.

And that time is now.

We haven't taken a roadtrip together - just the four of us - in a very long time. We haven't taken any sort of a trip together, actually.

Maybe that's why it seemed so painful. I didn't remember what it was like. I got soft.

I had forgotten how awesome it was to be trapped in a moving vehicle together, just the four of us. With my dad signing along to annoying music. And taking at least 40 minutes to stop after one of us proclaimed that we needed to pee. And my mother, trying to be fun and funny and failing miserably and starting over again. And the food choices. Oh, the food choices. Just because Meg said one time that she likes Culver's doesn't mean that we actually have to go there multiple times. Some of us like food that is not fried or on a bun. And if I say that I don't want ice cream it's probably because I really don't want it, so please don't ask a second time or offer me a bite of yours 11 times. And you know how, like, since the time I learned to read I would get so engrossed in a book that I would completely tune out what was happening around me? I actually like that, but you have to not interrupt me for at least five minutes for me to get into the zone. It's sort of like how you don't wake up someone when they're going to sleep.

(Special props to Uncle Ed, who booked us two hotel rooms instead of cramming us in one room. Because I would be bitching about The Snoring Twins, too.)

Also, I think that I am developing (or just beginning to notice that I have) a touch of anxiety. That has to be what this is. That horrible tight feeling that sits right in my chest, while tears dance in my eyes and my fists clench and unclench and my teeth grind and every muscle - and my stomach - is painfully knotted.

This weekend definitely isn't the first time that I've felt anxious.

But I certainly did.

When I was trapped. Trapped in the car. For hours. (Five, technically. But it felt like at least 11.)

Next time I'm bringing booze.

Friday, September 09, 2011

Dates and memories

I am good with remembering dates.

I can often be heard recalling the dates others. Remember what we were doing at this time last year? I can see the dates in my head. Where significance fell on calendars past.

The day this happened. The day that changed. The day it all fell apart.

The eighth day of the month. When I interviewed for my new job. The day that The Coach first stood on my front steps. The day in June when it all seemed perfect. The day in September – exactly four weeks from when we said goodbye – when I stood up for myself and for how I was feeling and for what I deserve. The eighth day of September: two days after he hurt me.

The day he hurt me. The Tuesday after Labor Day weekend. The day in 2007 that I was accepted – and started – graduate school. The day in 2010 that I screamed at my father on the phone. The day that I rushed home after learning that he had confessed to my mother. How hysterical I was that day in 2010. And sad again in 2011. A different sad. On the Tuesday after Labor Day weekend in 2011, I shook my head sadly and I sighed, reminding myself that I should have known better.

The eleventh of September. In 2001, Lucy and I drove home from Chicago in the wee hours of that horrific day. In 2011 – 10 years already? – I will also be driving home from Chicago.

June 25: the day Meg and I embarked for South Africa.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving. When I took Paul to campus and I was wearing a hoodie and he was wearing a jersey and a toque and I thought I lost our tickets but didn’t really and the game was won and we rushed the field and he posted pictures on this weird internet message board that he fancied and we ate hamburgers.

December 10: the first concert Lucy and I attended together, cementing our friendship as enduring and rare and what often strikes me as perfect – or maybe just close enough to perfect for it to feel real.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

No Likey

Driving to work this morning, I was working my way through my routine. Consumption of coffee. Checking Facebook when stopped at traffic signals. Observation of weather. Disgust with weather that was observed. Pondering the morning’s application of deodorant – real or imagined? Furiously scanning the radio dial for something decent.

I hate morning radio shows. While I occasionally find a topic mildly interesting, what I really want in the mornings is not celebrity gossip, is not deejays reading stories about stupid criminals, is not random people (mostly stupid ones) calling in to give some other random person advice about some random life crisis, is not stupid phone pranks or other general obnoxiousness.

Just give me some damn music so that I can zone the hell out.

That’s all I want. A mellow drive to work with music that doesn’t suck in the background.

(Yes, I am aware that utilizing my iPhone + Sync system would easily solve this problem. It seems like too much effort at 7:30 am.)

I am clearly in the minority. Why else would nearly every station on the dial have a morning show? Somebody must like it. A lot of them, presumably.

It's not just morning radio shows. I started making a list and I'm pretty sure this confirms that I am, indeed, a huge weirdo.

Here Is A List of Things I Don’t Like That Everyone Else in the Whole Wide World Seems to Think Are Fantastic

Morning radio shows
French fries
Nicholas Sparks
Desserts that combine fruit with chocolate (exception: chocolate-covered strawberries)
Project Runway

What are yours?

Wednesday, September 07, 2011


It's fall.

I'm not excited about it.

Fall is filled with tangibles that I adore - mild weather, cider mills, UM football, scarves and cardigans, the glorious day of my birth, pumpkin as an ingredient in every dish imaginable and totally perfect and awesome in each and every one, boots, Sundays spent on the couch, copious amounts of candy - but I am loathing the intangible. The dread that I have come to associate with fall.

It's been a long time since I've had a good fall.

I can't recall the last time that fall wasn't the toughest season of my year. College, maybe?


My last fall as an undergrad.

(Fuck. I'm old.)

(2003 also happens to be the last fall that UM beat Ohio State in their big rivalry game. This is probably not a coincidence. Go Blue.)

Now, you guys who have been reading my blog for a long time know that this is the part of the post where I promise that this fall will be different.

Except it has already started off - in very grand fashion - on the wrong foot.

Except I feel drained of my optimism.

Except all I want to do is put on a scarf and a sweater and crawl into my bed and nap until winter.

Waking only for meals of pumpkin bread pudding and pumpkin spice lattes.

Monday, September 05, 2011

Weekend Update

I have spent the holiday weekend reading.

Not exclusively. But that's mostly what I've done. Curled up on the couch with a book on my lap. And I'm okay with that. Everyone, it seems, has vacated the southeastern portion of our fair state for their quiet, peaceful cottages to the north. But I'm here. Not feeling terribly social anyway.

I did make it to Baby GAP to buy an outfit for Lucy and Chet's baby. He was officially proclaimed a he last week, and I just needed to purchase a little something to mark the occasion.

Meg and I went for a run on Saturday which was quite surreal. It is exactly what we did on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend last year. And then I came home to find evidence that confirmed that my dad was cheating on my mom. And then I told Meg. And to go on that run with her on Saturday brought that all back to me very, very vividly. Note to self: switch things up a bit next year.

We had a family party yesterday, which was a lovely distraction. I adore spending time with my cousins; I am so lucky to be so close with all of them. At the end of the party last night, I was sitting on the deck wrapped in a beach towel for warmth with my mom and my sister and my aunts Annette and Lynn and cousins Liz and Danielle (all of whom were wrapped in blankets and towels and huddled close together - it was brisk but not cold) and it was so quiet outside and it felt so close to absolute perfection.

Thursday, I bitched about my job. On Friday morning, I saw a posting for a job that interested me and that I thought I would be rather good at. And happened to be where The Coach is living. I saw it on a website and, not an hour later, the same posting was in my inbox. And a few hours after that, it was emailed to me a second time. The emails came in the midst of an especially annoying day at work. It piqued my interest.

Meg and I are going on a 10 mile run today.

Next weekend will be spent in Chicago.

I haven't felt like myself lately.

I'm likely moving in with my cousin Liz; probably in December.

And I think it is about time for me to get back to my book.

Thursday, September 01, 2011

Not quite right

I don’t know about this.

About my job, I mean. Even though, if I were being honest, I could apply that statement of doubt and unease to nearly every facet of my life. I’m really not sure about anything at the moment.

But right now, I’m talking about my job.

Last week, I had the review that marked the end of my probationary period. They’re keeping me around. Not that I doubted it – I was named to represent the ‘brary on a fancy-schmancy larger committee just the week before. But now I’m permanent. I’m official.

I’m doubting myself.

I thought that I would be happier. I thought that I would feel more at home. I thought that everything would click into place and I would feel like, finally, I am where I am supposed to be doing the things that I am supposed to be doing.

And I don’t.

Maybe I’m rushing this. Maybe I need to give it more time. But I am doubting this and I am doubting me and I’m questioning every choice that got me to this point and, my goodness, I am one month shy of my 29th birthday – when do I get to feel settled? Or like I’m on the right track? Or confident that I will ever do anything right on the first (or the second) try instead of foundering around and making stupid, costly errors and wasting my time and my life and every opportunity that has ever been presented to me?

I am terrified that this is, again, not quite right and, again, I missed the boat and studied the wrong things and got the wrong degree and followed the wrong path and have the wrong job. It is probably too early to tell. But I’m scared. Scared that I made the same mistake. That I did it again.

A number of my friends feel the same way. It is comforting, I suppose, to know that I am not the only one. That maybe we can blame this on our upbringings and our culture and higher powers and bad luck.

And that we can feel this way together. Like we have no idea what the hell we’re doing or where the hell we’re going but this road? It doesn’t seem right. Do you trust the map? Do you just keep going?
Blog Template by Delicious Design Studio