I’m clickety-clackety-writing fervently away because today is Thursday and my blog goes up on a Thursday and usually I write my blogs a day in advance to do the whole “Oh, is this shit?” thing that writers do—do they?—but I don’t have time because last night—Wednesday—I went out with my coworkers for a coworker dinner and that takes precedence.

MY SISTER: Why didn’t you write it on Tuesday then?

ME: *shoves her*

So don’t judge me for posting this late. But honestly this blog is free and you guys are vultures. Just kidding.

I keep having weird dreams. Last night, I had a dream that I hit on a guy who ended up being a girl and then we started dating and she started getting too clingy but I was friends with her friends who made me feel guilty for wanting to break it off, so I just hid under a bed. Literally. My dream-self is not great at breaking things off.

My coworker just got a tattoo and it’s interesting because I feel like this week has been all about tattoos for me. Like, Tyler Oakley—YouTuber and gay icon—just posted a video about getting his first tattoo and then I was talking to my best friend—Marco—while on my way to a pedicure with my other best friend—Spencer, let’s call him, because once when we were like sixteen, I wrote the beginning of a young adult novel with characters based off the two of us and I think that his character’s name was Spencer—and we discussed Harry Potter tattoos.

And I’ve told my parents that once I’m 22, I’m getting a tattoo, because they technically won’t be paying for my schooling anymore, but they have enough emotional baggage to manipulate me until my late forties at least…so, unclear. I lost my train of thought.

I found it again.

So I’m going to try to convince them to let me get a tattoo at 21 instead of 22 so I can get one with Marco. I’ve known what I’ve wanted for over a year, and I feel like they should trust me enough to allow me to get one? I mean, they trust me to leave the house every day.

I also may have discovered my perfect drag name. A drag name is a name for a drag queen, and while I am not a drag queen, I have been building up an arsenal of mental tricks of the trade—

Side bar, a “trade” is a masculine-looking gay guy, and now I can’t stop thinking of trade. Also it makes me think of my old AP Macroeconomics class.

—and have been brainstorming drag names. Brainstorming drag names is possibly the most fun thing ever. It can be a clever mix of dirty puns and double entendres. Here are a few of the names I have thought of:

Anya Cox, Tatya Well, Tux Titely, Rita Prescription, and Misty Meaner.

I’m not going to say the drag name because like the thing with the tattoo, I don’t need copycats. Or anyone digging up this old blog post when I’m rich and famous.

Oh! Nadia Head!

Anyway, this blog has gone on as long as it really possibly could for just me rambling, like really rambling. Like, you guys, normally, I just sort of rambling, but this time it was—well, how do I say this—like that video of the Gloucestershire cheese rolling competition? Have you ever seen that?