The answer is not very.
Last night, the epic snowstorm really got me down. I was like schmlerp, I almost fell on my ass on the ice and this snow is past my kneecaps and all that wine just made my belly hurt with no happy buzz in sight.
(Did you know my inner monologue is italic? Font joke?)
I hate feeling this way. It just makes me want to say hrmph and put on my grandma-iest sweater and mukluks (fake sweater mukluks, not cool eskimo ones). Even cookies can’t fix it.
So I went to my other mode of releasing toxic emotions. Diary times. I hate the word diary, but the word journal makes it sound like I’m out doing cool things, when I’m clearly just being average.
Then I started writing why I was frustrated in my diary and thought, God, this is so stupid! What do I have to complain about? I realized I am actually editing myself in my diary now too. This meaningful, perfection-striving business has gotten too intense. Maybe I need to eat fast food and watch Bravo and get my head on straight. I’m afraid of putting any words that are negative and blase because somehow I’ll slip into a depressing thought spiral. That’s crazy talk.
I love reading my silly, little insipid thoughts from diaries past. I’m about ready to compile the best quotes into a mini book and sell it! They sell a lot worse things to teenage girls, that’s for damn sure.
The point is I can’t keep telling myself that any feelings that aren’t enlightened and fluffy aren’t worth sharing. So I’ll be straight about things that are bugging me right now.
I hate that I still want to eat Doritos.
I hate that I can’t fix friendships that are stuck in awful roadblock places.
I hate that I can’t even go to a bar without a shovel or sleigh right now.
I hate that I don’t live with people who love me.
I hate that I have the best conversations in my head but can’t express myself out loud when it counts.
I hate that Valentine’s Day makes people feel shittier.
I hate that I try to negate my emotions in order to avoid them.
I hate that no matter how much I own, I want to buy more.
So there, I accept that I’m pissy. I’m not even writing a counter-intuitive happy list.
Ok, one note.
I love taking photos of my neighborhood.










