I want a dog.

Deep breaths

These days I’ve been listening to Spotify radio stations of Andy Grammar’s Good To Be Alive, John Legend’s Everybody Knows, and Ella Henderson’s Ghost. Twenty sixteen started out with breaking the one hundred thirty pound average weight (plus minus five, it settles on one twenty nine), relearning the novelty of gliding on ice, and feeling like the cool new kid that everybody wanted to get to know. It was clear and beautiful, like sunlit snowy days, and going to work feeling good about your clear, dewy skin. Keith Urban’s Somebody Like You. Buzzing, light energy. But just around the corner was a sharp drop, and I fell. Predictably, I’m binge eating while watching Family Guy up to two in the morning. It’s been a terrible past few days, with the last straw being a phone call that was a welcome reality check, but emotionally exhausting (too exhausting) after a long day at work and class. I’m just tired these days, and needing to crawl into a shell and simply, be.

Has it really been April since the last time I wrote? Yes, and we can blame it on analysis paralysis (having too many writings in the Noted app of my phone, imprisoned by the insecure need to revise them, and revise again) and having my arm cut off, i.e., not having a laptop to bring around because of a busted screen. Otherwise, life has been okay. Almost the robotic Good, my response to customers who start an order for coffee with the courteous How Are You Today? I like these fine folks though. Better than people who can’t even look you in the eye throughout an entire transaction, or the ones who shove a credit card at you before anything’s even been spoken. Good times. If you don’t already know, I’ve been a barista for the past months. Anyway, I’m OK. So here I am, just showing up, here, and maybe something will happen. Or not. But in case it does, let’s get it started: Lately I’m learning to forgive myself, which is harder than I even understand …