I started to write a blog post, and it was very sappy and faux-intellectual and a result of me trying too hard.

So I’m not gonna try hard. Isn’t that a good attitude to have?

I’m sitting on my deck, and everything is green leaves and blue sky and it seems impossible that only a few months ago, the world was a ice construction and everything was crystal and cold and crafted. Now I’m sitting outside, eating homemade hummus and listening to Spotify. I did not make the hummus.

I’m done with sophomore year, and it’s kind of freaking me out. Like, whenever I think about it, there is this swelling in my chest, the kind of restrained scream that is part primal terror and excitement. Because I’m a fetus; I am nascent; I am infantile. How can I be halfway done with college? When I was a kid, college students were impossibly old, and now that I am one, I realize how stupid that kid was. Like, I feel younger as a college student than I did as a middle-schooler. I felt very old as a middle-schooler, very over it.

I want to start writing more essays, more things about my life. Because this blog should be a time capsule, a literary photo album. Wait, I guess that would be called just a diary. I’m really kind of stupid. But anyway, it’s hard as fuck to write essays because you kind of feel like you have to scrape together life experiences to write about, or go out and experience life to write about it, which seems kind of backwards.

So I’m going to try to write essays, but I’m also going to continue to be a professional fuck-up. Someone once asked me why I call myself a fuck-up, because I’m technically not a “fuck-up” in the traditional sense. Or in the Biblical sense. That was a bad joke. I don’t even know if it makes sense. What else is new?

But anyway, I feel like a “fuck-up” is someone who is gladly messing up and clumsily stomping through life. I am buffalo-ing it through my world, stomping and being messy and I kind of like it. It’s more fun to be a fuck-up than a pin-up, and by pin-up I mean more in a metaphorical “keeping it together and looking perfect on the outside” way and less in a “kind of old-fashioned classy porn that sailors used possibly to masturbate to? It is very unclear as to what purpose pin-up girls actually served in the war effort except to provide Johnny with a little pleasure of the Biblical sense,” way. God, I’m definitely going to Hell.

*a few hours later*

SOS I’m obsessed with Ina Garten. I go through these weird patches where I become obsessed with someone/something and all I can do is watch them, and I guess Ina is my new obsession. It came on so quickly, but there’s something about her low-quality, butter-filled, “quaint,” “no stress,” extravagant meals that MAKES ME FEEL THINGS.

I don’t know what it is exactly, but I always find myself obsessed with older, fabulous ladies. Like Kris Jenner. She is a literal goddess. And now I can add Ina to my Pantheon. I also started watching Grace & Frankie, so I might soon add Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. But that’s to be determined.

I have to go. I have to watch more Ina Garten. Xoxo. Also an Ina Garten parody account responded to my tweet about Ina. So I’m #winning?


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