Can I just take a moment to express how much I hate porta-potties? My hate and disgust is so strong that I will directly avoid events where I know only shit boxes will be provided. Portable toilets are hot, putrid, foul places that I never, ever want to find myself in. Ever. Today, I had to use a poop house and it was horrible. It was so horrible. I want to describe my shitty (literally) ordeal for your reading pleasure, but first, I would like to share where I believe my fear of porta-potties came from.
When I was 15, I began dating a guy who was a total Creatine-head. He drove a ridiculous, embarrassingly huge truck, with stack pipes so big you had to know they represented what he so sorely lacked in his pants. He was a hot head and a fool. I was even more of a fool for dating him, but that’s another story or twelve. Anyways, I would accompany him and his family on camping trips out at Pyramid Lake during the summer. Anyone who knows Windless Bay beach, also knows that Windless Bay really means Wind So Strong It Blows Your Tent Into the Lake, Along With Your Sleeping Bag, and Favorite Down Feather Pillow. The wind at Pyramid Lake is like a big “Fuck You” to your ignorantly innocent belief your camping trip will be pleasant.
So, let’s recap, it’s fucking windy at Pyramid Lake. This particular beach also has two porta-potties for the entire beach. Two. How generous. It’s basically a germaphobe’s living nightmare. In case anyone wanted to know, wind and porta-potties aren’t the best of friends, especially so, when the porta-potty isn’t even anchored to the ground, in any way, shape, or form. I’m sure we have all inferred at this point that I had an unfortunate experience in a portable toilet at Pyramid Lake. Yes, I had to use a porta-poop in a wind storm and the experience has affected my mental stability since. I have Porta-Potty PTSD.
I don’t really want to get into how horrible the realization that you may, quite possibly, be in a porta-potty when it tips over, because I don’t have enough Xanex and bleach to erase the memory. Simply, I wouldn’t wish, even on Kanye West, the worry that the likelihood of being covered in other peoples’ poop is frighteningly high in such a situation. It was terrifying, let’s just leave it at that. However, the absolute best part was that my boyfriend, my walnut-for-a-brain boyfriend was outside the porta-potty, as my life was flashing before my eyes, and I was hastily asking God for forgiveness for all of my minor transgressions, shaking it. He was shaking the porta-potty. He was helping the wind along. He was shaking it like a big, dumb buffoon, laughing like a fool. I simultaneously wanted God to forgive me my sins and to kill another human being. When the horrific ride in the porta-poop finally came to an end, I mercilessly beat him over the head with a flip flop. I should have dumped him then and there, but I was D.U.M.B. at 15.
So, I am really not fond of porta-potties, but who is? I mean, I doubt there is a single person on this planet who seeks out these portable nightmares, because they get a kick out of the experience.
Today, at the Renaissance Faire (yes, I went to a Ren Faire, shut up), I mistakenly thought I could take my purse in the porta-potty. For anyone’s future reference, there is not a single square millimeter that is safe for you to touch, so why subject your precious purse to possible exposure to God-knows-what? So, I had to exit, apply half a bottle of hand sanitizer, and find my boyfriend to watch my purse. Upon my second attempt, I mistakenly looked in the hole! WHY IS THERE ALWAYS DIARRHEA? Does some asshole go around and diarrhea in every porta-potty he sees, or are the runs more of problem than I previously thought?
So, now comes the decision to brave sitting my naked, innocent ass on the vile seat or risk hovering and subsequently being splashed by the diarrhea. This decision stresses me out to the point I start to sweat profusely, and now I’ve been in a nasty, hotbox for far too long and I haven’t even done my business. I decide on hovering, because contact is just too terrifying. As I attempt to dodge the pee on the ground, while trying to not touch the front of the toilet seat with my pants, I notice my hair is almost in the urinal. It’s dangling IN THE URINAL.
I can’t even.
I almost just exit, mid-pee, with my pants around my knees. Scarring children for life, or the obvious embarrassment of exposing my hairy ass, seemed better at the moment than the sensory overload of nasty in that hell hole. As a serious germaphobe, these disgusting situations make me almost insane. It took me an hour to stop sweating and convulsing, and I’m still positive I’ve contracted syphilis.
Next time I find myself out in the woods, or at a concert, I’m holding it. I’m effing holding it.
Tag: blog
Free Donut Day
This shit, THIS SHIT right here is why I’m always gonna be fat. Friday is “National Doughnut (donut? Why are there two spellings??) Day”. Every damn day is some “National Excuse to Eat Day”. Every damn day. Do you know what this bullshit does to an impulsive eater? It isn’t pretty. Today is “National Chocolate Macaroon Day”. Did you know that? Basically, this means that I need a chocolate macaroon now. I mean, it’s only patriotic to celebrate, right? It would be un-American to not participate. I think the macaroon is French though, so now I’m all confused. I’ve never had a macaroon and have no idea where to purchase one, but it’s on my to-do list to find out. I bet you’re saying to yourself right now, “You mean the chubby girl has never had a macaroon?” I know, right?!
Let’s get real about this donut business. Donuts are my absolute weakness. I would probably sell my soul for the right donut. I’m very particular about my favorite naughty food, however. A dry 7-11 donut just won’t do. I also don’t like the fluffy ones. My donut needs to have some meat on its bones. I like the really dense cake donuts. You know, the kind you have to be careful not to eat too fast or you get it stuck in your throat, and it feels like it’s knifing you on its way down (why you gotta play me like that, donut? I love you and all you do is hurt me). My absolute ideal donut is a dense, yellow cake with pink frosting and sprinkles delight. I don’t even know what the flavor of the frosting is supposed to be, but it’s pink, and it’s fucking delicious. The sprinkles add some grit, and sometimes crunch, if some stray sugar sprinkles hop aboard. Sometimes, I can find the rare purple frosting donut, and that’s like seeing a unicorn. It’s so beautiful, rare, and just magnificent to behold. This past autumn, Raleys had a blueberry cake donut with blueberry frosting, and it far surpassed any of my donut expectations. I was more sad to see that go when the season passed than the PSL. My dream is to visit Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, Randy’s Donuts in L.A., and Top Pot Dougnuts in Seattle (keeping my obsession contained in the west). I’d like to go on a donut road trip if anyone cares to join me…I told you I take my donuts seriously.
In actual seriousness, this constant temptation all around me makes for a really hard time. I can’t even log into Facebook without seeing some sinful thing I want in my mouth. I honestly make a huge effort to eat right. Every morning I bag up my healthy food I spent hours prepping, I make coffee at home to put my homemade creamer in, and I count every calorie that goes into my mouth. Then, advertisements for S’mores Frappuccinos happen. Or, I get asked to go to sushi. Sometimes even, I smell McDonald’s breakfast on the way to work and my willpower is demolished. Just like that. It sucks. Unless I want to spend my life unattached to the outside world, I need to learn control. I need to learn how to not allow myself to be tempted. I need to learn that, while Cherry Garcia does make all the stress go away in such a sweet, sweet way, eating the whole pint in one sitting is disgusting.
If anyone has any pointers, I am all ears. I’m really close to buying the food addiction hypnosis class on Groupon, if all else fails (which it will, and I’m ALL about trying to not eat whilst sleeping). I do believe that choosing to not eat or exercising control is 100% mental. I do know enough to understand that my stomach isn’t calling the shots. As my new experience with yoga is a journey, so is my relationship with food. Maybe someday I can actually buy a box of Girl Scout cookies and have them around longer than 2 hours. Maybe.
Just in case anyone was curious, I did celebrate “National Chocolate Macaroon Day” with an It’s It. It’s like a macaroon in shape, only its bigger and not coconut and there’s ice cream. So, not a macaroon at all, but delicious just the same.
Also, I will attempt to not claim a free donut on Friday, or eat one in any way, but if I happen into the staff lounge, all bets are off. I call the pink donut, bitches!
*The fact there was an ad for KFC on the page about “National Dougnut Day” was not lost on me. While I know full well that move was the media intentionally sabotaging every chubby girl’s diet, I can’t help but find it genius. Everyone knows that after three donuts, you’ll be wanting some salty gravy. Brilliant.
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Try Again
This is my second post of the day, but only because I had to try downward dog again after speaking to a friend about what I was doing wrong in my previous picture. She said to lean into my hands more, and yes, that does sound like what the instructor said last week, but I was too busy trying not to pass out to pay any attention to her.
I tried to lean forward into my hands more, while raising my ass into the air further. My wrists still seem so weak, but I felt like what I was doing seemed more accurate. I will know more when I go to class on Thursday.
Along with working on my flexibility, I am also trying to strengthen my core. I am starting the plank challenge over, as it seemed, we, as teachers, don’t have the time before and after school to stay consistent with doing our planks everyday. So, here I am starting at the beginning with a 20 second plank, because, shit yes, that’s nothing.
Here we go!
I’m not sure, but it looks better? As avid fans can see, this time I’m watching Girls (such a great scene to pause, at least it’s not Hannah’s bewbs).
What you can see here is that my belly looks über unflattering in this position. What you can’t see is that, after 10 seconds, I was shaking like a leaf.
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Hangry
Do you ever get to that point in your diet when you could ravenously eat anything in sight? That point when anything sounds better than spaghetti squash? Preferably, that “anything” would be something that is a direct opposite of what is on said diet. Like, I could really go for some movie theater popcorn, drenched in warm, fake butter. Even better, movie theater popcorn with Reese’s Pieces mixed in (they get all soft and warm, and the sweet and salty together is practically orgasmic…)
Anywho…
I am in the super-ridiculously-hungry-for-really-bad-choices stage of my “diet”. I am currently “hangry”. Yes, I am angry because I can’t eat Cheesecake Factory for dinner tonight. Hangry. It’s a real thing.
I may sound ridiculous right now, but wait until you get a load of my thoughts on the ride home today. This is my brain. My brain on hunger pangs.
OMG, I’m coming up on Ijji Sushi. Tempura shrimp, sticky rice, dripping soy sauce. Fuck. I can literally eat my weight in sushi. All You Can Eat is a challenge, not a suggestion for me. I get down to business when it’s Sushi Time.
OK, I can’t see Ijji anymore, phew. But, there’s Applebee’s. I can smell them cooking. Like, through my car vents, 50 yards away, I can smell them cooking. They know I’m driving past. They know I’m hungry. Assholes. I haven’t been to Applebee’s in ten years, yet I could really go for some of their baby back ribs right about now. I don’t even really like ribs, they’re too messy, but I want them. Now.
Thank God I can’t smell ribs anymore. Oh, of course it’s KFC. It’s like the world wants me to be fat. It’s all a big game, it’s sabotage. *Practically licking imaginary grease off fingers*. I know no less than eight people who have gotten food poisoning from various KFC restaurants, but I would risk it for their gravy and mac and cheese right now. I don’t even care.
Finally, I’m on the freeway, and I believe I’m clear. There aren’t many food places along the freeway, as in there are none. However, I pass by The Nugget. The damn Nugget. I don’t know how they do it, but you can always smell their buffet as you pass. It smells like coming home.
OMFG. I smell room temperature prime rib. I smell soggy pasta. I smell unseasoned steamed veggies. I smell runny soft-serve ice cream. I smell…I smell *almost exits, but remembers buffet food always smells better than it tastes*.
When I’m finally home and exhausted from my hungry ride home, I see that my boyfriend has eaten the last of the six My Favorite Muffin muffins I got for free last weekend (I’m part of their rewards program. It really says a lot that I got a whole $12 worth of muffins for free after only being a reward member for a month). Normally, I would be happy that he has removed the temptation. Today, I’m hangry. I see red, I start to shake. I count down from 20, practice my meditation, and lick every last dry, crunchy, stale crumb from the box. I’m not even ashamed.
*Thanks to Ms. Friend, who reminded me today of my favorite word, hangry.
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Beginning
I’m sitting here, looking at the pictures my boyfriend just took of me doing two very basic yoga moves, and I’m contemplating two possible responses:
1. Wash a red velvet cupcake down with a s’mores Frapp, while crying all over my floral-print Muu Muu.
Or
2. Never eat again, subsisting on only air, while living the life of a hermit, relying on Amazon Prime to deliver anything I’ll ever need so as to never see the outside world until I don’t look like that in a picture. Ever. Again.
I felt saying, “drive off a cliff” was too morbid.
Actually, what I’m going to do is get a sugar-free Frapp and then scroll through Pinterest, looking for healthy food recipes, because THIS GIRL ain’t giving up. As mentioned in my previous post, I am beginning a journey to find my hidden, possibly natural, flexibility. I used to be lithe and fit (when I was 8). I think I can find that body again (I mean, I don’t want to look 8, just fit). I want to be able to contort myself in all sorts of amazing yoga positions. I think I can do this. No, I know I can do this. Furthermore, since posting the following super embarrassing photos of myself, and claiming I’ll be successful, it would be far too embarrassing to fail. I can’t fail.
So, without further adieu, here are my level Negative 0 moves. Please don’t critique at this point. If I’m not doing something right, it’s because I can’t, or I simply don’t know how. I will learn. I will continue to post my progression via pictures and experiences as I learn more about yoga and my body. Wish me luck.
Ugh, here we go.
I thought I had a butt, but I guess I don’t. Also, I need to work on my concentration face, yikes.
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Is That Me?
I am always aiming to be more zen. When I want to rip into our neighbor after the tenth scrape of his chair across the kitchen floor (who sits down and gets up so often in a span of 20 minutes? As a concerned neighbor, I think he should see someone about that). When the driver in front of me is deliberately driving under the speed limit, like they are purposely trying to hold me up. When my boyfriend eats my last Skinny Cow salted caramel diet bar (the only thing I look forward to some days). When I’m asked the same questions over and over and over all day long, and then, “What should we eat for dinner?”, when I get home. I need more zen in my life. It’s certain. Coincidentally, I also need more fitness in my life, so yoga it is.
My friend and coworker, Amy and I purchased Groupons for The Studio in Midtown. We decided that last Thursday would be the day to start. The only class we could both attend was Heated Vinyasa. If that didn’t terrify me enough, Katie, another friend and coworker, thought Thursday would be a fine day to start a squat and plank challenge. I would just like to go on record stating that whomever makes a squat challenge with 50 squats on Day 1, does not, in fact, need to do a squat challenge, and therefore does not know how many squats the layperson can actually do right out the gate.
Immediately following our 50 squat nightmare, my students came in for the start of their day. I was sweating and could hardly catch my breath. I was asked six times if I was alright by my concerned 3rd graders. Then, upon sitting down to take roll, my leg gave out and I almost fell on the floor. I’m just glad my students are still super innocent, or it could have appeared I was drunk. I’m honestly gonna give it my all with this squatting business, but the last day requires 250 squats. I wonder if I could get a good deal on wheelchairs on Amazon?
Because I’m a masochist, I actually didn’t bail on Amy and our yoga date. Throughout the day, we stole glances at each other that communicated, “Do you really want to do this? Should we go get Cold Stone instead?”, but not an actual word of protest was uttered, so we both found ourselves removing our shoes upon entering The Studio, and wondering how gross the floor might be.
Heated Vinyasa yoga is a type of yoga that connects breath with movement in a room heated to 95 degrees. Basically, heated Vinyasa means sweating your balls off while you ignore the fact you have done so, because you must always concentrate on your breath during movement. I cannot do this. I can either breathe or move, not both, especially when I’m sweating from places I did not know existed.
It should also be known that this heated room will stink. Like so, so bad. So bad. I kept smelling a horrible stench that I thought had to be the men in the room; I couldn’t possibly smell like that. Well, during a stretch that brought me too close to my feet, I discovered the smell was, in fact, me. It was my sweat. It was the stank of my feet because I wore my Toms all day. It was the smell coming from crevices that aren’t usually sweaty. It was ME. That was a very humbling moment.
The stretches spanned from beginner (I felt like a total pro when I was able to meet my knee with my elbow) to Never In My Life Will I Bend That Way. When your ankles are sweating, they are kind of hard to grab. Finally, those sweet words, “One more set and we will move into our floor series” were uttered. I love horizontal fitness! New to yoga, but not to Pilates, I’ve always been a huge fan of any exercise that is spent, for the most part, on the floor. Can it get any better for an über lazy person?
It was during the floor series that I came up close and personal with my neighbor’s sweaty taint. There really ought to be a proximity rule in yoga. If I can taste your balls, you’re too close. I felt mildly violated, so I got into child’s pose and thought only of happy things.
Despite the high temps and the fact that the sweat coming off of everyone’s body seemed to hang in the air, my first heated yoga experience was pretty positive. The Studio is clean, welcoming, and close to home. Amy and I both agreed that we got a positive vibe, and we will be back this week.
The thing I know I need to work on the most is my “ohm”. I have always had a hard time with the “ohm”. I get the giggles big time, because everyone is so serious and their “ohm” sounds so zen, while I just sound like a gutted pig. I doubt I’ll actually practice this guttural yoga staple, but maybe I’ll just mouth it next time.
Here’s to being zen. Maybe soon, I won’t care about everyone who annoys me, because I will be a calm yoga person, the kind who can say ‘Namaste’ seriously. Someone who has more peace and joy. Here’s hoping I can become a ‘yoga person’.
If you want to read more about my experience and my review of The Studio, you can find me on Yelp. I’m Katie “Eh” P. I can’t figure out how to change that, or how or why I’m “eh”…
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Me's
Today, the fine Alice Reno posted this picture with the above question (I’m shocked they spelled “you’re” correctly). Of course, because I like to speak my mind, I posted my opinion on the topic. And, of course, some uber-sensitive person declared that I was shaming my fellow woman with what I had to say.
I’m sure I’ve spoken via Facebook on this topic before, and since it’s a heated one, and I’m feeling a little hot under the collar today, I felt a blog post was necessary.
Let me get a few things out of the way first. Does this woman have a beautiful body? Yes. Am I slightly jealous of her taut, seemingly stretch mark-free tummy? Does a bear shit in the woods? Do I want her body? Yes (if possible, since this is fantasy and almost like ordering off a menu, I would like slightly larger bewbs too).
Now, can I be honest here, and say I’m growing tired of our incessant need to photograph ourselves and post it all over social media?
Disclaimer: I am in no way indicating I am an innocent party to the selfie. I have my fair share of embarrassing duck-lipped selfies and an even larger collection of pictures that didn’t make the cut. Before “duck lips”, it was “the Katie” and I’m not even barely joking. I’m not perfect, and I, too, suffer from the Me’s.
Thanks to our ever-growing technological age, our generation has the luxury of having information, any and all kinds of information, at the tip of our fingers. Where should we eat? Let me check Yelp. How do I get there? Let me open the Map app. What is the best way to remove grass stains from Toms? Google. It’s exciting and easy.
Remember when you loaded film into a camera, took pictures on your trip, and then had to wait until you got home to see how hideous you looked in your bathing suit on the beach? Now, you can delete, try another angle, or stand behind a sand dune, or something.
Taking pictures of ourselves and the term “selfie” are concepts bred from narcissism and easy access. No one took pictures of themselves with a camera needing film, too many could have been fails, and you would have had to wait until you could get to the store to drop off the film…etc. I’m not even going to finish the list, it’s already too much work.
Thanks to Instagram, Facebook, and the like, everyone is a model, and they all honestly believe we want to take a look. Let’s be honest, did you all really care I got a new #supercute shirt? I think not. Don’t even get me started on the Free the Nipple movement and how too many people think it just means that it should be alright to go topless at Raley’s. (Oh! Were you just in the freezer section?)
It’s just a theory, but I think this woman might be screaming behind her hair, “Look at how hot I am! #jealous”. Yeah, we are, but you also seem quite transparent and shallow. Notice I said, “seem”.
As women, we should be supporting each other, but I’m having a hard time getting behind the “Let’s take pictures of ourselves half naked and post it on social media” movement. It’s shallow. It’s offensive. It’s putting Kim Kardasian stank all over the work done by Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, and every other woman activist who fought so hard for us to be respected. I think these women would want better and because it’s saying, “this is my value, this is all I have to offer”, and that’s not true (or maybe it is, if you just a ho).
In ending, we all suffer from the Me’s. We all want to be accepted, loved, desired. Perhaps finding that validation won’t come in the form of how many likes you get for your boobs. Perhaps.
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Damn
Ever have one of those days when you want a piece of cake or really anything with a cake-like consistency, such as those Hostess cupcakes, the one with the frosting hats, so bad you could cry? The want is deep, deep in your bones. I always feel this way after I’m reminded how much I weigh or after I have to throw away a pair of jeans because my thighs burned a hole in them the size of Jonah Hill’s face.
I went to get a B12 shot at the Shot Spot today after a good year of not getting my shots or being weighed. The last time I was weighed was at my lady doctor appointment and I told the nurse to not tell me my weight upon penalty of death. Sometimes it’s better not to know. Ignorance really is bliss and it tastes like cinnamon gelato.
Today, I just had to know. Without spilling my deepest, darkest secret, I will say I’m 10 pounds away from being at my previous heaviest. What did I immediately want to celebrate the momentous occasion? I wanted a BBQ chicken pizza from Blind Onion washed down with a red velvet cupcake from Mix. An entire bottle of Framboise would have only helped me choke down my disgust.
My response, my way to self-soothe has always been to eat. Whether I’m stressed, sad, happy, anxious, bored, really any basic human emotion, it’s always a reason to celebrate with food. Bad day? That calls for an entire bottle of wine and the rest of the Costco-sized bag of chips. Having a fabulous, inspiring day? That just means I have to celebrate with a s’mores Frapp. Why not? You’re only fat once.
Around March, every year, without fail, I set my mind to being bikini ready before, well, the next year I aim to lose weight for the same goal. My M.O. is to start out with a set plan, really gung-ho-like that starts out super hopeful (grocery list complete with kale and sweet potatoes) and the promise I will never let a soda, diet even, pass my lips. Around early June, I wake up in the middle of the night, surrounded by chip crumbs, in a cold-sweat realizing I’ve actually gone in the opposite direction and gained 10 pounds. I count how many days until the first day I will have to be in a bathing suit. I think, “Two weeks? I can lose at least 10 pounds in that amount of time”. In two weeks I realize I’m no longer 20 and not a tweaker, so that was an impossible goal. At this point, I realize being bikini-ready is futile, so I exhale, put on my fat pants and walk to 7-11 for a donut and a slurpee. All that anxiety calls for some serious sugar.
Maybe ya’ll think I’m crazy or maybe you are sympathy-gnawing on a French baguette. I’m not really sure. I do know that food is good and eating less of it really, really sucks. I also know that the key to success with weight loss is almost 100% mental. I just have to find my motivation and my mental strength. Where did that go? I know I had it around here somewhere. I have to discover what’s better than gluttonous fettuccini Alfredo and gooey caramel wrapped in chocolate. Ugh. I really want a double caramel Magnum right now.
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Her
Everyone has a blog. I know. Almost just as many people have a blog about their journey from fat life to one of self-acceptable (or sadness, because being thin almost always means no more cupcakes). Despite this, I’m beginning a blog about my journey. How cliche. Whether it will be told from the perspective of a fat girl trying to accept her jiggly arms or through the eyes of a 32-year-old woman who has almost no idea what she is doing with her life has not been decided at this point. I’ll write about my fatness. I’ll write about my need to feel accepted in whatever form. I’ll write about my opinions from “fat acceptance” to the state of our crumbling world, both literally and figuratively. I’ll write about my life experiences, both past and present. I’ll write about the joys and pains of educating our future. I’ll just write, funny, thought-provoking, controversial, whatever.
A total aside-every ‘her’ I’ve typed thus far has auto-corrected to ‘Her’. Her wants to be capitalized. I’m not sure if this means anything, but I really, really want it to. Maybe it means I’m an important, inspiring, worthy woman and my blog will actually be read by others? Maybe it will inspire others? Maybe I’ll make you laugh, cry, or even make you eternally grateful you’re not me. Even if this little sign doesn’t mean anything and my blog is a total bomb or a total unknown in a world full of writers trying to find their way via WordPress, I will continue to write. I am writing for me. Writing is therapeutic, calming, exciting, inspiring and it’s something I will do regardless of how many followers or comments I receive. I’m really not writing for the exposure. I’m writing because I physically have to. When you wake up in the middle of the night to write down a thought so you don’t forget it, or when you park your car after just driving home from work and you have no idea what streets you took or how you even got home because you were mentally writing your next Facebook post or Yelp review, it’s time to start writing a blog again. For the safety of all people on the road, for my sanity, I’m writing again.
Thanks to Facebook and our over-sharing generation most of my readers (I’m already assuming I’ll have readers) know who I am. I’m not yet decided on whether who I am on Facebook or who I am at work or with friends is really who I am. Maybe I’ll find out someday.
Obviously, my name gives it away, I’m a voluptuous cupcake-lover (that’s being kind. I’m fat and I inhale Mix cupcakes in my closet and then I burn the evidence). I’m anal retentive. I’m funnier on paper. In person, I’m likely suffering from Aspergers. I hold on to everything (no, not in a hoarder way, more in an OCD-way). I beat a dead horse. I’m a germaphobe and I guess the secrets out? How did everyone know? I hate being looked at, but I usually feel ignored. I live in the past far too much. I have massive wanderlust, but I’m terrifed of the dangers and uncomfortable aspects of travel. I’m petrified of death, that death is just darkness. I collect Bath & Body Works products, but I hate materialism and have considered living more simply (it’ll never happen…). I notice and remember people, feelings, memories and details fair too perfectly. I’m either an excellent candidate for the Scotland Yard or I’m a creeper. I have only started discovering who I am. Haven’t we all just begun?
I’ve already lost most of you. I’m rambling at this point. I will stop for now. One tiny hint before I go: reading my words outloud might come easier, as I write how I think- a jumbled, mess of thoughts, feelings, desires and fears all wrapped up in a pretty pink bow, because I’m also a neat freak. Welcome to my world.