The Internet Should Be Read-Only after 9 PM

Do you hang out on the Internet at night? Do you often regret the things you’ve said/ordered off Amazon/said on the Internet at night? Me too. While this sounds like the beginning of an infomercial, I have neither the platform or the discipline to make one, so this is just a blog post about a strong opinion I have. SORRY.

So my thing with the Internet is that *it’s great*, right? Isn’t it great? It’s probably tracking everything I do, but IDK, I don’t do anything super-illegal and also it kinda feels nice that the Internet like, cares, that much to track all my movements. The Internet is basically the best listener ever.

The thing about the Internet that’s problematic for me is that I use it after 9 PM sometimes. It doesn’t matter if I’m drunk/high/totally sober, I’m  a total weirdo by like 8 PM because I’ve used up all my normal-humaning on work and so I’m gonna email my friends youtube videos of birds that have subject lines like “IT ME LETS MOVE

TO THE DESERT YES?” and then the next day I have to explain to my friend that no, it was not acid, I just have poor impulse control.

So I’d like to propose a new protocol. The Internet should be read-only after 9 PM. Based on your timezone, when you get on your wifi, it should block you from sending ANYTHING. Emergencies are for phones. Mistakes are for computers.

SRSLY, back away from the internet

BWCE

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Topics for the club

Last night I went “clubbing” with some friends, because someone was turning 30 and I apparently wanted to pretend that clubs don’t force me to immediately blackout and run home, leaving me awake in my apartment far too early the next day with a slew of texts from my (drunk) friends that are like, “R U ALIVE?!”, “I hope UR alive?”, “DID YOU GET SVU’D?!?!” It’s the club’s fault, y’all.

ANYWAY, because I haven’t been to a New York club in at least several years, I sat in my bathroom last night trying to think about what sort of stories I had to scream-tell a friend-adjacent person I’d inevitably end up fake-talking to while at the club. Back in the day, I was pretty good at clubs. I was 24ish, skinny enough to fit in dresses that were the length of the shirts I wear now and I had ample time and patience for my hair and makeup. Guys would come up to me and be all, “hey. I’m Greg. What do you do?” and I’d sigh, all bored at their politeness and be like, “NOTHING” and then dance on Austin to some Lil’ Wayne song. I’m pretty sure I was winning clubs back then.

Last night I was watching Empire (BECAUSE THAT SHOW IS BASICALLY HEAVEN YOU GUYS ITS SO GOOD) on the couch in a couple of our gross old towels, lamenting to bf that I had to go socialize with people, and trying to mentally prepare myself for choosing a club outfit. The right choice would have been my “Nikki Minaj” dress, as I like to call it, which is basically just tight black dress with some mesh in the front that shows more of my boobs than I’m comfortable with. The choice I made was to wear my usually stylish trouser pants with a blue, loose tank top, because then I didn’t have to spend the entire night pulling my dress down and also my bra (yes, I have only one) is dirty, so I needed to be able to wear my substitute bra, which is just an under-tank with a shelf bra in it. And my shelf bra is navy and the dress is black, so like, I’d basically be breaking all fashion rules by combining them. Because the person who wears a shelf bra to the club clearly cares about fashion rules.

I digress, because the whole point of this post is that I no longer come equipped with club-ready topics. As I was strapping myself into my shelf bra and looking in the mirror, going, “this is kind of makeup on my face?” I didn’t spend enough time thinking about the meaningless topics I’d need to cover with my new fake club friends.

Club topics need to be short, easily understood (even if your listener is drunk and hears 1/3rd of the words you’re yelling), and relatable to anyone, because you’re not likely to meet your friend-soulmate at the club. Club conversations are like:

  • omg, that guy is so hot
  • omg, that girl is SO drunk
  • omg, this drink is  SOSO bad
  • omg, you’re like my fucking SOULMATE right now do you wanna do a shot?
  • omg, that shot was SO bad!
  • omg, I LOVE THIS SONG LETS DANCE

But, last night after telling a group of 40-somethings from New Jersey that they totally had Kelly Ripa arms and that they gave me hope for future me bearing children and still looking hot (at least I’m a nice drunk?) I found myself in the club, wholly unequipped. As it turns out, having things I care about in my life and being drunk at a club do not make me a good club person. Because I’m pretty sure my conversations were like:

  • omg, the sink in my pre-war apartment clogs like, every month, and I just want it to stop. u know?
  • omg, so I was on WebMD the other day and I either have tendonitis or I’ve fractured the front part of BOTH ankles
  • omg, this drink is SO overpriced for what it is, like, their well gin isn’t even Hendricks
  • omg, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about our hiring process at work and how we could be more inclusive to women because I think right now we unconsciously select for men
  • omg, I USED TO LOVE THIS SONG LETS DANCE – OW, MY TENDONITIS

I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the bed (literally, bf was sleeping on my side and it was BIZARRE), face full of smeared makeup and my stomach with the sort of dead undigested food feeling I have after eating not one, but two slices of probably toxic dollar slice pizza from the place across the street from my apartment, meaning I drunk-person Irish exited the club sometime before 4 AM.

At least I have all my stuff.

Peace, love and the “pizza” that’s going to live in my body forever, 

BWCE

Not-so-subtle Differences

The other day I was at Grand Central, after like fifty-seven (ok, three, but it felt like way more) trips to Penn Station, and I was thinking about how I would describe Penn Station V Grand Central to non-New Yorkers. I was thinking about all of this while walking through a fucking gorgeous artisanal market IN THE TRAIN STATION that, upon entering it, literally prompted me to say out loud, “I love New York.” The doucheyness of this city has fully consumed me and I think I’m ok with it, artisanal train station markets and all.

ANYWAY, I spent a lot of time thinking about all the nuances that separate Grand Central from Penn that I could describe to a non-New Yorker, and I ended up with this –

Screen Shot 2016-04-08 at 6.24.13 PM

You’re welcome,

Peace, love and the rosé I’m drinking right now,

BWCE

Groundhog’s Day is Stupid

This morning I was taking a cab to work, because I have recently (ie – in the past 9 months) become one of those pieces of shit who actually pays $10 to get to work in lieu of walking or paying $2 to get to work slightly more quickly via subway because it involves walking up the stairs at the W 4th street stop and I have some sort of vendetta against those stairs (they smell like piss and are kinda steep).

Seriously, though, you have to walk up stairs to walk back down stairs. It’s dumb an I object. But, back to the cab. So, for one thing when it snows in the city and you take a cab, the cab drivers seem to enjoy passive aggressively scolding their fares for taking a cab in the first place. Today (because I am double-shitty and wore sneakers instead of snow boots and COULDN’T walk home), both cab drivers immediately were like, “HEY. IT’S ICY OUT.”

Yes. Yes, cab driver. It is icy out. That is exactly why I have fled to the safety of your car rather than enjoyed my usually lovely walk through Soho to work. I can check Facebook and walk at the same time. I absolutely don’t need to be riding in your cab to accomplish all of my morning goals. They are not too lofty. But the cab drivers like to keep going with the passive aggression. With the sighing and talking about how it’s icy out and dangerous on the street and I want to be like LISTEN IF YOU DON’T WANT ME HERE I GET IT I’VE BEEN IN ENOUGH COLLEGE HOOK-UP SITUATIONS TO UNDERSTAND WHAT’S GOING ON. But I really didn’t want to get my new sneakers wet so I just kinda dealt with it. Just like in college when their apartment was closer to my 9 AM class. I was prepared for this, cab driver.

Ok, side rant over. Anyway, when I was in the cab this morning the radio people were talking about Groundhog Day. The first thing they said was how Puxatawney Phil in Philadelphia saw his shadow and so six weeks more winter and for whatever reason the whole crowd cheered. And also during the announcement they were like, “start using hashtag six more weeks.” Which seems like a really pathetic attempt to make Groundhog Day still happen.

But so then, immediately after that, the news was like BUT IN STATEN ISLAND, twobuckchuck or whatever our groundhog’s name is (may the one De Blasio killed last year RIP) was all, ‘hey no shadow’ and AGAIN EVERYONE CHEERED. Which makes more sense, but given Philly’s reaction I DON’T KNOW WHAT WE’RE CHEERING FOR. Is it the groundhog coming out of his groundhog house/hole on command? Is it the preservation of tradition? Is it that they know that TBS will DEF be playing that Bill Murray movie on syndication like alllllll day long?

Look, I sort of get that tradition is sort of important (basically I don’t, but I’m trying here), and that we have to have SOMETHING to do in February because Valentine’s Day is coming, fuck. But can’t we at least stick with one soothsaying groundhog like we stick with one Santa?

It’s getting really close to midnight and if I don’t publish this soon I fear I’m going to end up in the plot of that Bill Murray movie.

Groundhog’s day is stupid and always makes me think I have something to do on February 2nd when I don’t. But groundhogs are cute! Let’s look at some of them:

daww da babies

That’s it. It snowed today so I’m going with Puxatawney Phil’s soothsaying. Stupid winter. Diediedie.

I Regret Everything

I hate a lot of things: People who cut in lines; radio DJs who try to add their own ‘uh hu! uh hu!’s on top of a song you otherwise like; when iTunes only has a movie for purchase instead of rent(I will never watch Sex Tape twice, Apple). But one of the things I hate the most is when people are all like “I have NO REGRETS”. I get the sentiment. It’s that whole, “If I hadn’t made every single mistake/choice that led me to where I am now I wouldn’t be SO HAPPY with how my life is going at this exact second.” Or maybe you’re just like, on your deathbed, and it sounds a lot nicer that say “I have no regrets” to the people around you who are going to have to continue living afterwards and need some hope. Was that dark? Sorry, I’m sickly right now and I get all dark and broody when I’m sick. NO REGRETS. 

The thing about people saying “I have no regrets” is that they usually can only say it when they’re in a really good place in life. I’m totally guilty of this. I probably tried to be more stupidly poetic with it and say something like, “all of the mistakes I made have woven together the beautiful tapestry of what my life is today” or whatever. What a douche I was being. I apologize. But I really do believe when someone says, “I have no regrets,” that it comes from some place of self-righteousness, or at least delusion. There’s something about how you feel when literally every single piece of your life feels so perfect that you think you’ve REALLY figured it out. You’re the special one who, despite being 28 and only having like $10 in your savings account, GETS happiness. And you talk to people and give advice like you’ve cracked the code. That kind of attitude can be really detrimental to others, I think. I’ve given advice that is really detrimental to others, I think.

I think the other reason people are so compelled to say that they have no regrets is that regret fades. Like heartbreak or the fucking illness I’m dealing with right now (die illness, die) they leave you so quietly that one day you wake up and you can basically not remember what it’s like to live with them. In some senses you almost romanticize them. My mom and I have often talked about how some of our most vivid, happy memories have come from times when we were otherwise utterly depressed. That song you listened to when you were living in the bottom of a regret-pit becomes a badge of honor. It’s a way to conjure up the memory that you were once so low and can now be thankful that you aren’t.

But back to hating things. I’ve been living with some regret lately. In the grand scheme of things, it’s insignificant. It will fade faster than a spray tan(I’m hoping that’s short because I’ve never gotten a spray tan but real tans don’t last nearly long enough, so?). And definitely faster than the years of regret I experienced when I hadn’t figured out my career shit and I hated myself for going to music school. But because all these A-holes are out there saying, “YOLO. NO REGRETS” (“YOLO” precedes all dumb statements except for when Drake uses it), I’ve been laying listlessly on the pile of reasons to hate myself that exist in my head and thinking, “God, you’re the one fucking person with regrets. I bet Rihanna has a No Regrets tattoo because she’s that much better than you.”

Can we just band together and admit it? We’ve got regrets. Sometimes we feel them and we feel like they’re massively fucking our lives and sometimes we just look back and say, “Oh, hey. That sucked a lot and I would have been less sad had I not done that thing.”

I’ll start. Here’s a totally non-comprehensive list of regrets I have had in the past. If I ever say, “I have no regrets” print this shit and mail it to me:

  • So there was this boy on the school bus who I didn’t think I liked, but I guess I liked, and he totally liked this very pretty girl who was SO cool and knew how to perfectly wear her hair in one of those mushroom buns and her name was Jacqueline which was so classy bitch for Snellville, Ga. And so I guess I was harboring some anger about the fact that he loved her but would make fun of me so I kept making this joke that I was going to hit him in the head with my rock keychain (flirting? I only had brothers to learn from) and I think he was like, “bring it on!” but maybe he was just busy flirting with Jacqueline so one time when I was leaving I actually smacked him in the head with the rock keychain and he looked SO INJURED and I got worried I was going to get a citation and I repressed the rest of 6th grade bus rides homes. I think I apologized the next day.
  • The first time I ever got dumped I learned how to play guitar to I could sing an INCREDIBLY detailed song about our relationship at my high school talent show. I think I embarrassed the shit out of my mother and I really upset him.
  • When my family lived in Brazil and I had no friends, I’d watch “Two of a Kind” (that Olsens twins show) and wish I had a twin because I had no friends. And I liked their hairstyles. The first time I was invited out with a group to the movies I did my hair in these weird Princess Leia buns that ala the Olsen twins’ hairstyles but I was not good at doing hair so I overcompensated with more butterfly clips.
  • Every time I’ve tried to change myself so I could stay in a relationship.
  • Highlights. And then swimming in a very chlorinated pool and not washing my hair after. But also, just the highlights.
  • The first time I was ever pulled into a meeting with senior management at a company I worked for and asked my opinion seriously, I made a joke about how my college taught me nothing but how to do drugs (;;cringes a million times over for that one::).
  • Every piece of drunk pizza I’ve ever eaten.
  • Most of the times I’ve sung Karaoke because I notoriously pick bad songs. (note – don’t sing Natalie Merchant’s “Carnival” at your college welcome week)
  • Straight across bangs.
  • The entire period of post-college where I thought duck face or opening my mouth as wide as possible was better than smiling and letting my naturally smaller eye show (to her credit, BFF kept yelling “JUST SMILE NORMAL” during all these photos).
  • That time I was drunk and I tried to show my friend how well I could Walk it Out. I cannot walk it out.
  • All the other times I was drunk and did stuff.
  • But also all the stuff I did sober.

Peace, love and I REGRET EVERYTHING, 

tiff

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What it’s like to write an eBook when you have no idea what you’re doing

In case it wasn’t apparent from the giant banner at the top of this blog, I wrote an eBook. That was a little under two years ago, but due to career changes, life, blah blah, it feels more like something that happened in the life of an entirely different person. Also, WordPress deleted like thirty minutes of good edits so this post is not as good as it could have been (*fist shaking at the WordPress gods*).

My life has changed so much in the past two years that I rarely think about the time when I hated my job and my career prospects and the only thing that gave me any sense of satisfaction was writing this blog. I really only think about it in a “wow, I’m really fucking lucky I’ve found something I love to do everyday. How did I trick these people into paying me?” kind of way. Or I think about it when people say, “Hey. You wrote a book. What was that like?”

And that’s what I’m going to talk about. I’ve been reticent to write about the experience because I don’t want it to come off humble-braggy (or regular braggy), or sounding like I’m lamenting one of the most exciting and proud accomplishments of my 20s. Please keep that second part in mind when I lament.

But I think enough (so, like five?) people who read this blog are also writers/aspiring writers in some vein and hopefully my learnings can help you one day when you also write an eBook (or regular book. Dream big, peeps!). So, here goes:

How did it happen? 

Like threepointfive years ago I was walking home from work, thinking about how the one year anniversary of when I met my then ex-boyfriend was coming up because I’m a massive creep who’s overly sentimental and I was thinking about the Google reminder I’d set for myself when we broke up for four months out that was like, “Throw a party because you’re totally over that douche”, and how that reminder and come and gone and I was, in fact, not at all over that douche. I should have told my boyfriend to skip this paragraph.

^That’s a tangent and also very close to the first page of my eBook. NEWAY. I came up with this whole idea about the online dating and went home and told Austin and CLEARLY we got drunk in the living room to celebrate and when our other roommates came home and we were sitting on the floor having a singalong to Robyn (but songs from before she was like, Gay Icon Robyn, eg. “Show Me Love”) and were like, “Why the fuck are you guys blackout? It’s Monday.” We were probably like

BECAUSE TIFFANY’S GONNA BE INTERNET FAMOUS FOR DATING

but I’m not sure we said that because we were blackout.

So I started my experiment and nothing happened. The Internet did not rally around me 40 Days of Dating style, but some of my friends did express that they thought I was The Worst for going on dates and writing about it in what I like to refer to as The Great Rooftop Confrontation of 2012. And then Chris and I got back together and the blogging about dating came to an end.

BUT. A year later, when I was submitting anything and everything to Thought Catalog anytime I felt extra suicidal at work, one of my posts was finally accepted. An editor there started scanning through my blog and reposing more stuff. Then one day she emailed me and asked if I wanted to turn my online dating posts into an eBook.

Within about ten minutes my boyfriend texted me that he’d gotten the job he’d been in hoping to get for the past six months. We had the best day ever. Champagne was consumed, Drake was blasted, drunk rapping was the main activity of the evening. The high from that lasted a few days for me. I was going to be an AUTHOR. Ok, well, an eBook author, but someone who wrote something who someone else asked them to write so that’s like an author. Right? Shit, I was going to be an author. was going to be an author? How was I going to be an author?

What was it like? 

I wanted to be a writer when I was a little kid. I imaged sitting in my New York City apartment, guinea pig on my desk, eating a cookie at 9 AM because mommy wasn’t there to tell me I couldn’t. I’d look out the window at my city view and type away, relaying all of my experiences to the world. It’d be fucking beautiful.

Wrong. Me writing a book looked like this –

All of my roommates were out of town that weekend. Someone had gifted me some adderall a few weeks back (god bless you, unknown drug angel) so I spent the weekend very alert, holed up in my apartment crying and ordering different variations of my favorite sandwich from the bodega across the street, feeling utterly terrified that I was going to fuck up writing a book like I fucked up music school because apparently I’ve got some demons, people. I had bed bugs but I didn’t know it yet, so I was also quite itchy.

And here’s where I get to the hindsight being 20/20 part –

I was living with a brilliant, kind, helpful, beautiful, wonderful human with a giant book deal (who could make this sentence a hell of a lot better) and I didn’t ask her for help. One of my dear friends who knows every terrible, embarrassing thing about me is an editor a very real publication. Yet another good friend is an editor at a publishing house.

I asked none of them for help because I was Imposter Syndroming so hard. I didn’t ask my editor enough questions because I was starstruck and believed she secretly hated me and was terrified she was going to cancel the whole deal entirely.

It did not help that during this time it was that part of GIRLS where Hannah was blowing her book deal and if Lena Dunham couldn’t do it HOW WAS I GOING TO DO IT?

What was your “process”?

Art(super hating myself for even slightly putting what I do and ‘art’ in the same category) and expression are romanticized like whoa. In reality, they’re a lot like pooping.

You’re walking down the street, minding your own business, and suddenly it comes to you and so you have to go to a Starbucks and order a coffee and pretend like you want to be there so no one else knows you just needed a place no one you know will be in while you get this thing inside you out of you. This metaphor is working so well.

My “process” sucked. And I did it all wrong. And when my book was released (i.e. – put up on Amazon), I was actually sitting in my apartment alone, drinking massive amounts of vodka and texting pictures of dead bed bugs in a plastic bag to the guy with the bed bug sniffing dog to confirm that I did indeed have bed bugs.

Did you sell a lot of copies?

It was a stroke of luck in some ways that I was drunk and on the verge of insanity because both of those things compelled me to announce my book’s arrival on social media. I’d posted nothing about it previously because I was terrified I’d fail to produce, but in my drunkeness I harassed everyone I knew into buying it and reviewing it.

The early sales and positive reviews (thanks friend & mom) placed me into the Kindle Singles program. If you don’t know what that is it means lots of free promotion from Amazon and lots of lots of lots of sales. Of course, lots of sales means lots of reviews.

Is it good?

I was laying in bed on a Sunday morning, a couple days after the book became a Kindle Single, trying to figure out something to tweet because people kept following me on Twitter and I felt the pressure. I took a break from trying to think up jokes about my hangover and popped over to my Amazon page. And there it was, a review from an unknown human. It wasn’t scathing, by any means, but it was a, ‘this was a meh experience for me’ sort of thing. I freaked out, my boyfriend calmed me down. We got mimosas. All was well again.

Until the next day, when Googling myself brought up a review. A review! Of my book! As it turned out there was a new website devoted to reviewing every Kindle Single and the woman who reviewed mine absolutely fucking hated it. I read her review that criticized my writing, my experience and me, in general, and then I went outside to wander around in the fog and cry.

At the time, it hardly hit me that my book was in the top ten non-fiction Kindle Single sales for the week. All I could do was be obsessed with the opinion of this one person. And, subsequently, a bunch of other people who wrote negative reviews.

At first I wanted to hear all of it. I thought if I could soak up enough negative feedback I’d be able to make myself immune. In my quieter moments, though, those words would echo in my head. I’d get defensive and bitter. I’d make up conversations in my head. I’d try to take action.

Reviewer – “Seems like Tiffany needs to keep her day job.”

Me – “I AM KEEPING MY DAY JOB YOU ASSHOLE.” And then I went and marked every single one of his Amazon reviews for screwdrivers as ‘This review was not helpful’. Suck it, reviewer.

I made the mistake of personifying them when, in reality, internet commentors are unsympathetic shells of people. Anonymity does weird things.

So it’s two years down the line and every so often I get the inevitable, ‘hey! you wrote a book,’ from a new friend who’s taken the time to look at my Twitter. It’s a weird thing to be both proud of an accomplishment and simultaneously embarrassed by it. And it’s a weird thing to manage your internet self, a distilled version of you that (at least if you want to be paid attention to) should present every little thing you’ve done as evidence that you should be paid attention to. Well, until you’ve done something cool enough that just gets you them for free.

When I published the book I’d get asked by some of my more put together friends if I was nervous about the fact that I’d potentially forever be associated with drinking and dating. I didn’t think back then and I still don’t think now that I’ll ever be worried about that part of it. It’s really the smaller things, like the fact that I used the word ‘retarded’ or that I described in detail how I was repulsed by someone mainly due to his weight. I don’t worry people will find out I wrote it (because that’s still kind of fucking cool), but I’m always gripped by the anxiety that they’ll read it and see me like some of the internet commentors did. That maybe they won’t hear everything delivered in the flat, tongue-in-cheek tone I wanted them to hear it in.

What did you learn?

No one asks me this question, but it’s the most important part, because it all goes back to the biggest lesson I’ve ever learned about Imposter Syndrome. I was dying for an opportunity like this one in order to prove to myself that I was not just another person blogging on the internet, but a person with ideas worth being put into a more permanent form. Once I got that opportunity I felt just as much like an imposter as I had before. I was up against the other people writing books who really knew what they were doing. I thought if I could just push out ANYTHING and be published then I’d have that title of “author” to claim for myself. Once I did publish the book and the reviews started coming in, Imposter Syndrome struck again. I wasn’t an author, I was a “bad author”, a “hack”, or as the website that continually liked to use puns on how my book was about drinking (we get it, you’re not good writers either <- still bitter) described it “only selling copies because of a clever title and good cover art.”

The lesson I learned was that I’m going to feel like an imposter until the day I die if I let myself. It’s never going to get better, nothing is ever going to feed that deep-seeded insecurity that I’ve got in the pit of my stomach. Every glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel fades and morphs into something sinister, a whisper in my ear that wakes me up in the middle of the night to remind me that I’m the shittiest.

^Uplifting, right? BUT IT IS I PROMISE STICK WITH ME WE’RE ALMOST DONE AND THEN YOU CAN EAT COOKIES IF YOU HAVE THEM I PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE WARNED YOU TO COME EQUIPPED WITH COOKIES. Once I realized that the imposter syndrome, just like all of my anxiety and my crazy, is with me forever, I was able to take it a little less seriously. It became just like that voice in my head that tells me the 90-something, tiny Asian woman walking behind me in the street is actually a secret serial killer and she’s about to stab me. It doesn’t go away, but it’s stupid as fuck.

Are there a bunch of things I wish I’d done better when I wrote it? Hell yes. Am I so embarrassed at points when I think about things I wrote? Oh my god you have no idea. But we learn best through our mistakes. We see new parts of ourselves when we’re putting our broken egos back together.

And all of the lessons I’ve learned? Those will just have to be used on the next (e)Book.

Next time… On Serial.*

*I’msorryIhadtoIcouldn’thelpmyselfitsoundsSOcoolinmyhead.

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A Reboot

A long time ago, in a land far, far more Republican than the one I’m currently writing from, a very lost 24-year-old girl packed a bunch of slutty American Apparel dresses and half-broken Forever21 heels into the back of a Uhaul van and drove up to New York city because, fuck it, why not? She’d spend four years trudging through the fog of her mid-20s, giving up on all of the assumptions she’d made about what The Rest of Life was supposed to be and dealing with all of the emotions that come with feeling totally unsure of everything. And so she wrote about it. Pretty much all of it.

I’m not sure exactly when it was that I realized how distant I feel from that person who wrote about moving to New York and ‘figuring it all out’. Maybe it was the moment I signed my offer letter for me real, grown up job that left me no longer feeling rent-poor. Maybe it was when I moved south of 100th street for the first time. Maybe it was yesterday, when I was standing in a Container Store on the Upper East Side, guarding two carts full of closet organizers while my boyfriend went to check out some back-of-the-door hanger things because I now live with a man in a place that is not a dorm room or my parent’s house or my bed-bug infested room in a four bedroom above 100th street while he’s just hanging out until the co-op board approves his lease.

I know it wasn’t a single moment where I felt a shift, but increasingly in the past few months and, even more so, days, I’ve become aware of how different life suddenly feels. This blog, while at times was my half-assed attempt to get internet famous, functions as a dairy, of sorts. I’ve never really cared to remember my innermost thoughts because they’re usually about how many types of cookie/brownie hybrid I can make, but having an externally-facing diary has been really weird way to capture what I was like at a certain point in my life. Whenever I go over these posts, I get to see how I wanted to present myself to the world.

As I said, I dunno, three posts down from this one, I’ve really been wanting to write on here again in some sort of regular fashion, but every time I get halfway through a post it all sort of falls apart. I’ve spent the greater half of last year trying to figure out exactly why that was. It goes back to being a different sort of person. An adult, now, I think? Or at the very least not a person who can lament being totally, 100% unadult. My unadulthood is no longer unadulterated by adult-ness. <- I’m sorry, I had to. I’m rusty.

It goes back to the whole presenting myself to the world thing. I think the more put-together my life starts to get, the more I feel the need to protect my little world. Like I’m somehow going to make a joke about my job, or my relationship, or even myself and it’s going to ruin it all. I’m not good at nice things. Actually all of my nice things are locked in a storage facility by the West Side highway right now and I’m too lazy to visit them. Sorry, nice things.

Back to the point. Protecting myself is starting to feel really shitty and lonely, and I don’t think I want to do it anymore. So, full disclosure, I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to write about or if it’s going to be funny or will there be pictures or maybe I’m just going to post links to tattoos I’m thinking about getting and you guys can comment on them? I’ve thought about starting countless new blogs; an anonymous Tumblr with all my secret thoughts; “deep” shit written on napkins (also a Tumblr, probably?), a Twitter parody account called Bad Observational Humor (I think we actually did make a Tumblr for that one but it turns out funny bad jokes are harder to make than funny good jokes), but I think I’m gonna stick with what my generation is best at – narcissistic, self-involved, egotistic, vain (how many other synonyms has the New York Times Styles section used when describing Millennials?) blog posts about my life in New York.

Because, fuck it, why not? 

Half Marathon

As a child, I had no shortage of energy for participating in all things active. I took gymnastics, karate, ran laps around the playground while singing the Animaniacs theme song at the top of my lungs during lunch (no, I did not have many friends but thanks for asking you jerk), and begged my mother to plant a weeping willow in our front yard since they were the easiest type of tree to climb.

The argument went something like this:

“Tiffany, trees take a really long time to grow and you’re not going to care about having a weeping willow when you’re 20.”

“Please mommmyyy, can’t we get one of those half grown trees from Home Depot? I will TOTALLY still want a weeping willow when I’m 20. I WILL ALWAYS LOVE TREES.”

We had a very similar argument about my love of the 1998 Ford Taurus when I was in middle school. Oh youth.

As a child, my body was a happy place to live. I was tiny, energetic and hand-eye coordination didn’t seem like a concept invented by The Man just to keep me down. Somewhere in between the 4th grade and being handed a pamphlet about the Magic Transformation into Womanhood I was about to experience, my body teen-werewolfed itself into the top-heavy, accident-prone vessel that has me identifying all too closely with Arcade Fire’s “My Body is A Cage”.

Pretty sure this is the weirdest picture I’ve ever made

I don’t remember exactly when the transformation occurred, but I know it was very close to when health class starts making you run the mile as a basic fitness test. I’m pretty certain this test was created to establish teenage popularity hierarchy, because when I think about huffing and puffing(caused not by running but speedwalking, of course) my way around that track which, mind you, was the ONLY elementary school activity that required a trip to the high school stadium, I re-live every awkward, terrible, teenage trauma I ever experienced in a few brief seconds.

SO! Running and I have a complicated relationship.

Strangely enough, while looking for a good image for It’s Complicated, I came across the Spanish translation. “It’s not so easy” is better, don’t you think? Also, if anyone has any pointers on how to make a pic of running shoes and a water bottle look sexy, please advise.

When I graduated college, I decided that one of my goals for my 20s was to become “athletic”. Throughout the years I’d dabbled in various types of workouts — everything from kickboxing bootcamps that required I get up at 5 AM and circuit train in a terrifying Atlanta park with a bunch of 30-yr-olds who were probably having some sort of quarter life crisis I was unaware of at the time to swing dancing classes I hoped would be fun but ended up reminding me of my complete lack of coordination all to the soundtrack of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy (Zoot Suit Riot was more like Zoot Suit Fall on the Floor and then hop up and hope no one saw you but they all totally saw you, you should just leave now). The one takeaway I had from trying it all was that I found no joy in any of these activities. Even the most benign of fitness activities (think Zumba or that one where you are supposed to get your arms toned by clacking two sticks together) was a chore for me. It all came down to the fact that I am not athletic.

Athletic people seemed to revel in the idea of spending a weekend hiking, or sunset yoga when they could be happy-houring it up. I hated them and their stupid fast metabolisms and their endorphin highs and I had no idea how I was going to get myself to become one of them, so I figured I’d start at the root of where athleticism all went wrong for me – running.

If you are not an athletic person, you know all about the hells of running: the blood/copper taste in your mouth, the coughing that leads to gasping for air in between coughs that then leads to dry heaving. Trying to block the timer on the treadmill with your towel, but then getting impatient and moving the towel, figuring you’ve run at least 10 miles if you feel this bad, only to realize that you’re two minutes in and not even a quarter of a mile into the process. Running is masochism at its purest. The term “runner’s high” is a fancy synonym for Stockholm Syndrome.

At least that’s how it feels at first. But slowly, not-so-surely because of all of the dry-heaving, I found myself starting to tolerate running. And the reason I began to tolerate it had little to do with how good my body felt afterwards (because well, it still really didn’t) but because of what was happening to me mentally. I found that through running, an activity that I could continue simply by placing assuring that my legs were moving required my mind’s commitment to continue that action. And my own ability to endure discomfort grew and eventually became an outlet I found pretty inspiring.

But after the initial exposure, I hit some sort of wall. I could run 3-ish miles without feeling as though I was being punished for every mistake I’ve ever made in the history of my whole life, but I couldn’t do much more. On days where my lungs felt strong, my ankles, knees or even the arches of my feet (et tu, arches?) would feel ready to snap in half. As I ran toward those hopes of laughing and climbing rocks with all of the Athletic Ones (or more often than not, the image of Paula Dean garnishing a fried oreo chocolate cookie tower with an entire pint of Ben&Jerry’s Chunky Monkey because I love watching the Food Network at the gym), my body gave out and once again I felt doomed to never understand the joys of making one’s body do things.

After several years of failed running attempts, I decided to force myself to progress by the only way I know how to force myself to do anything – fear of public embarrassment. So in January I signed up for a half marathon that seemed far enough away to not terrify me, but close enough that I would immediately feel forced to prepare. And prepare I did, through runners toes (gross), angry ankles (limping!), and all sorts of discomfort, I found myself last Saturday running mother. fucking. half. marathon.

It’s universally known that the best part of doing something like running a half marathon is telling people that you are going to or have already run a half marathon, but I don’t want to spend this blog post doing that, because that’s what Facebook is for. What I want to tell you about is all of the random shit going through my head while running a half marathon. Because 2 hours and 20-some minutes is a LONG time to run and there has to be something going on in there other than “ow my feet hurt, my feet hurt, when will my feet not hurt?” for at least some of the time.

S0 here’s a brief outline of the things I was thinking during the half marathon –

Mile 0 –

  • OK, here we go. You can do this. YOU CAN DO THIS. Ow, my ankle already hurts.
  • I’m passing people! Some people are already walking! Maybe we’ll win!
  • Shit. How far have we gone? I wonder if they let you know at every mile. That can’t be. We definitely already gone a mile.

Mile 1 –

  • Fuck. I can’t believe we’ve only gone a mile.

Mile 2 –

  • Ok, this is fine. You’re gonna feel great once you know you have less than 10 miles to go.
  • WAIT WHAT IS THIS A HILL OF SOME SORT?! THE SIGN UP PAGE DID NOT INDICATE THAT THERE WOULD BE HILLS.

Mile 3 –

  • Minor freak out, I guess that wasn’t really a hill as much as a slight incline, but you’re doing it!

Mile 4 –

  • I really identify with the lyrics of this Drake song.

Mile 5 –

  • Mile 5! This is almost over. Right? That’s a thing, probably? Like, “oh you know how half marathons go. Once you get past the first five miles it’s just cruise control from there.”
  • It sort of smells like Iowa out here. What is that, cow manure?

Mile 6 –

  • I’m pretty hungry.

Mile 7 –

  • Past the halfway point! And I feel sort of OK. I’m basically to the finish line. God, I can’t believe I’ve accomplished this. This is amazing. I’m so proud of mysel-
  • Quit crying. Why are you even crying? WTF there’s another hill and you are hyperventilating because you are crying.

Mile 8 –

  • Ok, so your left foot is completely numb but at least you quit crying. Why were you crying anyway?
  • Maybe you’re just really excited about finishing this thing and when you think about it you start crying.
  • OH MY GOD QUIT CRYING.

Mile 9 –

  • I’m running slower than the old man walking in front of me.

Mile 10 –

  • Think about all of the cheese you’ll be able to eat when this is over.

Mile 11 –

  • Cheeeeeeeeeeessssseeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Mile 12 –

  • Cheese and bread. Cheese and bread. Cheese and bread.

Mile 13 –

  • I CAN SEE THE FINISH LINE I CAN’T BELIEVE I DIDN’T DIE OMFG WHY ARE YOU CRYING AGAIN???

And when I crossed the finish line, the chick who handed me a metal was like “ARE YOU OK?” because I was making a weird moany hyperventilatey sound from crying like a moron.

Peace, love and here are some pictures of me being “athletic”,

BWCE

Thinking about cheese, duh.

The height of a runner’s high. Probably identifying with Drake songs.

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Lazy Girl Swag

I’m gonna go ahead and preface this by letting you guys know that this will definitely be the most useful DIY/Lifestyle post I do, because, as you know, I’m pretty much terrible at DIY anything and don’t even get me started on fashion photography.

I first had the idea for this post over a year ago, when Austin and I were Gchatting about various ways I keep myself looking ‘fresh’ and I could basically hear him having a heart attack on the other side of the chat when I explained one of my favorite tricks to him. He’s very clean. As with many post ideas, I am a lazy POS and I forgot it or started watching TV instead of working every time I sat down to write it, but in the advent of summer, I’m finding myself relying on an arsenal of time-tested tactics I have for making myself look like I haven’t just rolled out of the glorified laundry hamper I call my bedroom.

It really comes down to planning:

Every night before I go to bed, I feel a little nagging voice in my head that’s like, “Hey, don’t people who have their shit together know what they’re going to wear in the morning?” and then I completely ignore that voice and pass out with my makeup still on (pretty sure washing your face at night is just a conspiracy to sell more face soap anyway). But when I’ve hit my snooze button for like the fifth time in the morning, I make sure to inject outfit planning into my semi-conscious dreams and more often than not I come up with something by the time I’m awake. Every so often I wake up and realize that I don’t own the onesie Feist wears in the 1,2,3,4 video, and that’s the start of a really sad day, but most of the time I’m good to go.

Face wash conspiracy theory: Foundation is just tinted moisturizer anyway.

Of course, the most fashionable know how to improvise:

Half-asleep Tiffany is usually too busy trying to escape Miley Cyrus, who has been hired to murder her with a single, tiny razor blade in a giant field next to a Denny’s (why MILEY? I’m always the first to defend you!), to realize that half of the pieces of clothing she’s planned on wearing for the day are either 1.) at her real apartment uptown, nearly an hour away, 2.) stained/smelly/wrinkled/hiding in the crevice between the bed and the wall and she will never find them in the five minutes she’s allocated to getting ready.

So there I am most mornings, half-dressed, make-up smeared down my face and cursing as I try to figure out whether or not I can cut the sleeves off a t-shirt I got at some random event and make it look like a suitable tank top to go under the only cardigan I can find. But somehow, it all works out.

Case in point – An outfit I wore this week constructed out of thin air like a motherf$&king criminal mastermind:

My selfie face is generally a reaction to my being disgusted by myself for taking a selfie

 

I’m not expecting to be awarded best dressed or anything, but someone at the office did say, “Awwww. You dressed up today!” Successful trickery at its finest!

This outfit, to the unsuspecting eye, may actually seem planned out, but it was actually inspired by the following thoughts:

#1 – “I forgot to put shampoo in my hair last night”

#2 – “I don’t have eyeshadow, this bronzer will probably work”

#3 – “Pretty sure the top half of this dress is see-through. I wish the sweater that matched didn’t have a wine stain on it.”

#4 – “If I wear this wine-stained sweater backwards maybe people will think I didn’t know about the stain”

Seriously, I’m shocked I’m not the CEO of something yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And on the note of improvising, here are some magic tricks I’ve discovered over the years: 

#1 – Sharpie + vaseline/lipgloss/leftover grease from that pizza I ate last night = lip stain. 

Once every few years I decide I’m going to be the type of person who wears lip color. I buy like four different types, lose three of them within a week and then let the other one live in my purse until it usually explodes inside my purse and ruins everything living in there (wallet, keys, phone, broken pen graveyard). I then come to my senses for a few years until I have some random memory lapse and buy lip gloss again. During my periods of lucidity, if I feel that I require some lip color, I will grab the nearest sharpie (in pink or red, but if you’re into the goth stuff I’m sure black works too), dab it on the center of my lips a couple of times and then put some vaseline on it. I actually learned this trick from Jane Magazine back in college, so I am hereby absolved of all guilt if you accidentally poison yourself doing this. Seriously, I’m not even gonna feel bad about it so use this tip sparingly.

#2 – The ponytail beehive for day after dancing hair.

Lots of sweat + bobby pins/ bent out of shape paper clips/ probably a chip clip I found on the floor = the 1950s!

One of the most frustrating parts of going out dancing — other than loud music, too many people, having to dance, it being hard to hold a drink while dancing, really the whole act of “going dancing” — is that I generally spend like 2 hours getting my hair ready only to have it get sweaty and disgusting within two minutes of entering the disgusting, terrible dance-establishment. If I’m going to put two hours of work into my appearance, I should at least get two nights of enjoyment out of my labors. I’m pretty sure that’s like the whole basis of economics. Enter the ponytail beehive(patent pending, or some fancy sounding equivalent). After trying and failing like every DIY hairstyle I could find on Buzzfeed one day, I got really annoyed and threw my hair into one of those mushroom ponytail bun things that the popular girls in 6th grade used to be able to pull off but I never could. As I was trying to figure out why I still couldn’t figure out the mushroom bun (haven’t I blossomed since middle school?), I realized that if I pressed the abominable bun against the back of my head and threw some bobby pins in it, I could actually create something resembling a Mad Men-era hairdo.

#3 – Just. The best life hack ever. Please believe me. Lysol = deodorant and cures razor burn. 

This is the tip that made Austin lose his faith in all that is good in the world, but I swear to you it’s amazing. Once Christmas break in college I had a job at The Gap that kept me pretty busy. The was a gym right by the mall I was working at, so I’d often workout, shower and hop in my car to drive straight to work. Because I was no better at planning my outfits back then, I would throw a bunch of random stuff from my floor into a gym bag and rush out of the house in a fury, often forgetting basic toiletries like my toothbrush and deodorant. At the time, I smoked cigarettes in my car because I apparently was really into depreciation and I kept a giant bottle of lysol in the backseat so I could spray a bunch of it around in case a family member wanted a ride somewhere. This ruse was unsuccessful, obviously, but one day when I was desperately searching my car for deodorant, I came across the lysol and thought, “couldn’t hurt” (keep in mind I was already smoking cigarettes in my car, so spraying chemicals directly onto my arm pits seemed reasonable).

The lysol not only worked amazingly, but it also cured some gnarly razor burn I had from being allergic to my metal razor. While again, I take no responsibility if you develop some weird disease from doing this on the regular, it’s pretty fantastic in a pinch. Plus, I’ve already got my celebrity scent idea ready for the day that I become famous:

Suck on that, Katy Perry

K, now that I have confessed to almost every disgusting habit I’m feeling like you guys are probably getting pretty judgy and feel like I need to do some nail art or something to overcompensate. If you have any lazy girl (or boy) lifehacks, I’d love to hear them.

Peace, love and Lysol, 

BWCE

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You can get the things you want

I’m writing this on a flight out of Chicago after attending my first programming conference. The experience in and of itself deserves an entirely different kind of blog post, but to say the least it was wonderful, inspiring and so so much fun. The reason I’m even talking about it is because about a year ago was my first time in Chicago. I was also at a conference, but on the sales side trying to attract new business. I didn’t get to see any of Chicago, so en route to the airport, I promised myself that one day I’d come back and get a proper Chicago tourist trip in.

At that point, that simple promise was just another thing I was adding onto an overwhelming and ever-growing list of shit I promised myself I was going to do:

To-do: Quit writing angry to-do notes to self

That was hardly the beginning of my list, because it had only been growing since my teens and it seemed as though the only things I’d accomplished ended up being the things I didn’t even want after all. I felt doomed to live in uncompleted to-do list limbo, spending countless sleepless nights thinking about all of the ways I was failing myself. Or at least I was having weird dreams where my guinea pigs were somehow multiplying like that Fantasia cartoon with the brooms and I was failing to take care of all of them. How’s that for symbolism?

The best part of making this pic was knowing how much my mom is going to like it.

But for once, I had a plan. After several years of throwing shit against a wall and having pretty much none of it stick, I had developed a hypothesis that learning how to program was the thing that was going to stick.

Why programming, of all things?

  1. Good salaries, lots of job openings, past positive experiences working with people in that field – you know, logical shit.
  2. Lots of funny things come from the internet – to be honest this reason may have been more influential than it should have been.
  3. If coding jobs sucked as much as regular business jobs I could eventually freelance and work on whatever creative endeavor I’m into at the time which, let’s be honest, by the time I’m 32 it’ll probably be making Cronut performance art in a warehouse in Poughkeepsie.

So the plan was to learn how to code, but how was I going to do that? I wasn’t all that sure yet. I was knee-deep in applying to the Flatiron School and that path seemed a hell of a lot more likely to be successful that buying lottery tickets and hoping that one day my dad would decide that supporting me for life seemed like a cool idea.

Added bonus: I’m better at grammar than Google spell-check!

Having a plan like that was terrifying. I was more terrified than when I moved to New York with no money or when I quit my job at the Flower Company or every night when I’m taking a shower and there is definitely a murderer on the other side of the shower curtain and if I close both eyes at once he’s going to get me so I just have to let the shampoo burn one eye while I keep it open or else I’m totally dead I’m sure of it and don’t you try to tell me otherwise. The nightmares about not being able to complete the to-do list through the symbolism of ever-multiplying guineas transformed into nightmares about tornadoes and the apocalypse and my teeth falling out while the guinea pigs STILL kept multiplying and for some reason my grandmother was there and I had to get this really expensive block of cheese through Penn station which is basically impossibly because Penn Station. Ew.

But then, almost before I had time to register what was going on, I got into Flatiron School. And I went there and didn’t fail. And I got a job, and I love that job, and the past 8 months have been the happiest of my adult life. Possibly my whole life because not being equipped to properly deal with sticky hands really ruined childhood for me. I get to walk around every day and feel a little like, Fuck yea. I did this shit.

The funny thing, that I didn’t realize until maybe even today when I played hooky from the conference to later finally get my Chicago tourist experience, was that crossing that one thing off my life-long to-do list was only the beginning.

I solved this one piece of the puzzle in my life (at least for now) and all of the sudden the routes to accomplishing the other goals are starting to become clearer. Since the beginning of this year, I’ve been checking things off left and right. I’m getting things I hardly realized I wanted. When did I become the type of person who actually gets what she wants? Normally I can’t even get a decent pad thai off of Seamless.

So this morning, when I played hooky and wandered through Chicago, trying to figure out how a lake could be so damn big, I started trying to think about what has happened to me in the past year. My takeaways might not be funny (I’m trying here) but I hope they’re at least helpful:

Lake version of those stupid photos with peoples’ feet and the ocean. Does not capture the massiveness of Lake Michigan.

It really comes down to making sure you know, deep down inside, that you *can* get the things you want. 

I think the reason learning how to program changed my perspective was because I stepped completely out of my element. It felt like I was growing this new appendage(creepy analogy, but I’m sticking with it). That type of experience happens so rarely in adult life. In contrast, most of the things we want are only slightly out of reach. We live under the assumption that one day we’ll have them while never really getting any closer to getting them, and for the most part we’re ok with that.

Programming was different. As I vented on here last fall, the simple act of telling people I was going to learn how to program was a trial in and of itself, because I don’t seem like the “programmer type”. I, along with 40 other awesomely driven human beings, took a huge leap. I allowed myself to feel the thing that is probably the third most uncomfortable feeling in the world — starting over (FYI #1 is moving and #2 is carrying your jacket in a bar. #4 is what my f-ed up tailbone feels like right now because this airplane seat is the worst). So once I’d been through starting over and not failing and realizing that really it’s not that bad being that kind of uncomfortable, it put everything else into perspective. I wanted to get better at running? So start running. I wanted to freelance? So start freelancing. Would I rather be laying on the couch watching How I Met Your Mother for the 87th time? Hell yes!

Onto the second point – I finally realized the distinction between thinking I could HAVE the things I want and knowing I can GET the things I want. 

As you know from constant lamenting, Karmin-hating and various other thinly veiled insecurity fueled blog posts, the single point of failure in my life to date was not leaving music school as a musician. I have analyzed and justified and reanalysed and I think I’ve done all of it while John Mayer was just playing on a loop so it’s probably getting pretty annoying to my neighbors by now, but I think I finally figured out the root of that failure. We grow up expecting we’ll HAVE things, which makes sense as we are all born with some natural talents. I used my talents to coast through school, without ever really having to try too hard and by the time I hit college I had let my natural talents form my identity. The problem with not having to struggle, was that I didn’t understand what working hard felt like. Once my competition expanded beyond a small subset of people just like me, I no longer could coast by.

That jarring realization hit me at music school and I didn’t understand how I couldn’t just HAVE the life I wanted. And at the very least, if it wasn’t going to be given to me on a silver platter hand-delivered by Justin Timberlake, my future husband, then everyone I ever met should have been standing alongside me, cheering me on and clapping for me every time I made even the tiniest bit of progress.

I didn’t magically HAVE that success and I didn’t HAVE everyone rooting for me, so I gave up. For almost every reason I’m glad that happened, but when I think about it too long and hard I get sad for baby Tiffany because I know how badly she wanted music to be her life and I almost can’t fault her for not really understanding the different.

You can get the things you want if you just work for shit. And I don’t mean the work all night don’t sleep lose your life be a non-human human so you can get things, because that’s a pile of crap. I mean work slowly, realistically, dedicated-ly(not a word, apparently, but it should be) towards the things you want. I will never pretend and say to you that I stayed up all night working on something because I have a vested interest in getting our society to admit that sleep is good and we should all get a lot of it because I am a very sleepy person and I’d really like to bring the Siesta to America (FYI that would totally be my presidential campaign platform if I ever got into politics. So smart).

Ok so how does this really apply to you, the person reading who feels lost and has read a million of these type of posts on FastCompany and none of it has really helped you?

To start, you’ve gotta know what you want. 

I can’t remember if I’ve ever blogged it before, so I’ll blog it again, but a couple years ago when I realized that I was very unhappy and didn’t know how to fix myself, my boyfriend said, with the best of intentions in mind, “Why don’t you write a life plan?” So I went to a quiet little bar after work, I pulled out a note pad, I started googling “How to become a famous blogger” and then “How much do famous bloggers make” and then “How much do bloggers/yoga teachers make?”, and finally “How to get a job for 100K or more if you hate working and/or want to blog.”

As I tried to take notes, my pen died. And I had no more pens. And so I showed up at my boyfriend’s doorstep, sobbing because how could I come up with a life plan if I couldn’t even keep a second pen on me?

It seems as though there’s no magical formula to figuring out what it is you want in any area of your life, but I spend a lot of time thinking about if and how we could create a formula for that(that isn’t one of those personality tests that always tells me I’m PERFECT for customer service). If I ever do figure it out, you better believe I’m gonna make a bomb ass website that like shows you a cool puppy gif the second it identifies exactly what will make you happy.

To-do: Figure out how to make WordPress like gifs


So in light of my not knowing what to tell you while also feeling all of your feels, I will tell you this and what I think of my not-knowing period now that I’m no longer in it –
I’d liken the way you feel to be most like how you feel in a breakup. Because you’re kind of in a breakup with your life in its current form. There’s something magical about the period after a breakup, once you’re no longer there and can look back, because all of the moments where you felt relief were so heightened.

I think it was like that for me when I hated my job and didn’t know how not to. The glimmers of hope I found through getting a blog post on Thought Catalog or thinking maybe I could become this totally different type of employee were the only things that pushed me forward. I look back now and romanticize the first time someone emailed me about the Flatiron school. I have an epic story in my head about how I was at a business meeting in the diamond district and had to sprint down the street afterwards under the guise of “leaving for a doctor’s appointment” when I was really rushing to find reliable wi-fi connection for my admissions interview.

And all of the failed attempts, like music school and customer service, to find what I want gave me a wealth of experiences and a lot of new friends. Also, I’m an expert at bathroom/stairwell/subway crying. That’s a resume worthy skill… right?  

If you feel like the Jackson Pollack of trying out careers, or relationships, or even trying out different kinds of Yoga but you keep ending up in the one that’s just about breathing and not even a workout, that’s ok. Do you see what I did there with the Jackson Pollack thing? Throwing stuff against a wall? If it was a good joke I’ve completely ruined it now. 

My whole point is that the most productive thing you can do is break emotionally. More people than not are going through what you’re going through in some form. And if they’re not going through it right now, they will be at some point in the future because that’s life. Even Beyoncé’s gotta have bad days (Is it weird that saying that about Yoncé makes me feel blasphemous?).

So I’ve just preached at you for too long, but now it’s time to level up

One of the things I want is to have this blog alive and well and I’ve been avoiding that for some time. Because of all the reasons I stated above:

  • What is this blog even about? (Late night food ordering, I think?) What do I want it to be? It’s been three years and I still have no idea.
  • Sometimes I find writing on the Internet really, unbearably scary. Especially once I got the tiniest bit of attention via an eBook it got way scarier because I was worried I’d fuck it all up or say something dumb on twitter like, you know, everyone else ever?
  • It’s really hard to think of something to write every week and there are so many episodes of Scandal I haven’t caught up on.


But having it, for scarier or for less scary, is something I want because the conversations it lets me have with people make the Internet (and in turn my life) a friendlier, more connected place for me… and hopefully all of you.

So I hereby declare that I will post on here once a week again, and that if I don’t PleaseI’mBeggingYou harass me via social media or comments or call up Seamless and tell them to blacklist calzone serving restaurants until I post again. Because we can get the things we want. And we absolutely should.

Peace, love and I’m back bitches,

BWCE

PS – I recognize that I totally owe you all a post about how I lit my hand on fire or something to balance out all the touchy/feely-ness of this post.

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