Hello people of the world.

It’s been a while since I’ve written a rambly post. Straight from the hip. No points. No previous thoughts.

No preparation whatsoever.

I’m such a dedicated little blog post writer.

But that’s the thing. I miss writing. And, selfishly, I miss writing for me. So here is a blog post, written for me.

Kinda like a diary. You are reading my diary.

Does it make you feel…mischievous? Shady? Naughty?

*a snort bursts forth from the inner depths of her tightly reigned-in and hidden, immature brain*

It’s Friday as I write this. The house is quiet. My vision hazy. I thought it’d be a good idea to steep two bags of peppermint tea in my fat YOU ROCK mug—but turns out, it’s not as yummy as it sounds.

In fact, it’s kinda bitter.

Yack.

*takes another sip*

This is nice. I thank you, readership, for allowing me to take a Sunday (*cough* Friday) to write for myself.

And I didn’t get you anything…

My skin smells like Bath and Body Works’ Japanese Cherry Blossom. A signature scent for so many.

I, on the other hand, I smell like an old lady. And not the sparkly-eyed, wise kind of old lady, either—with the vintage silk scarves that float above my loafers and my hair knotted at the back, pierced through with a single Chinese chopstick—no. The kind of old lady that only wears thin flannel nightgowns from Walmart, slippers on the wrong feet, and stores mothballs in her raincoat pockets.

Japanese Cherry Blossom works for so many other people though. It’s weird.

I have been rejected, emotionally and physically, by a B&BW scent—sounds like a blog post I would write, huh?

It’s a long weekend this weekend and all I want to do is sleep. Sleep and binge watch the last episodes of Pretty Little Liars on Netflix.

No.

That’s a lie.

I finished season seven before I even sat down to write this blog post.

I’m such a dedicated little blog post writer. . .

I must be a grown up now—because my bedroom is always neat. I can’t relax until the carpet is showing, my reading chair is cleared off and the shoes are arranged neatly on their silver stand in the closet.

I used to be the girl who slept amongst the pile of laundry—clean and dirty, I didn’t separate it. I’d either use my nose or simply remember that “that was the cami I wore under that blouse when I went to church one or two days ago, so it must still be dirty.”

Now, I actually own a laundry hamper.

Who have I become.

I’m working full-time now, which makes me a real grown-up (especially considering the under-eye bags, excessive use of caffeine, and worrying about the condition of my foot arches). However, my lunches consist mainly of peanut butter sandwiches, goldfish crackers, and applesauce, which isn’t grown-up at all. So I must be keeping the balance of the universe in tact.

You’re welcome, Universe.

And in that spirit, I depart.

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