What can I say that hasn’t been said before?

I feel heavy. But not like weight heavy (I mean I know I’m “heavy” but by an ant’s standard [well maybe not an ‘and’ as I’ve heard they can carry a damn lot of weight….. scratch my comparison]). I feeling completely weighted down by world, by society, by life, feelings, everything.

The shootings that have occurred this weekend, both in Orlando and Christina Grimmie’s untimely death, have left me absent of words. Just weighted.

The last few days have knocked all the motivation right out of me. I gave up on my week’s FitBit challenge with my friends, too heavy to keep moving forward and gaining more steps. The week before I hit my best record of 89,637 steps in one week, this week I barely made it by 45K, I felt too heavy to keep trying.

I spent most of my weekend in bed, which doesn’t sound to out-of-the norm because it’s the last weekend before summer break so everyone naturally assumed I was soaking up all the lazy time I can get before summer gets into full swing. I didn’t have the heart to tell anyone that I couldn’t get up because I was too heavy from the weight of external problems, that and I wanted to avoid the world because it’s being rather stupid right now…

My heart aches, my eyes are swollen and raw from rubbing tears away, my throat is sore from failing to hold back tears, and my spirit is too raw to accurately pretend that everything is fine. So many people are now dead, because someone thought they knew better and that lives were worthless. How do I begin wrapping my mind around that logic? How does anyone?

Were I a good enough musician, I’d pour my heart out into strains of sound and let it play. Were I a better artist, I’d paint my tears and sorrows into a mural for everyone to see beauty and love still exist.

But in my state of heaviness, all I can do is write this for the friends and families of all victims of violence: I dream of the day I wake up and find no news of gun violence. My heart goes out to all the friends and families of victims, I weep tears for them, I hope for better days for them.



Jenny Lawson approved!

If people were only characterized upon whether they were a cat or a dog, I’d be fucked. I’d be a mutation of the two, but not a cute one like a cat that’s as big as a dog or a dog as graceful as a cat. No, I’d be the fucked up runt with floppy ears, long snout, judgmental cat eyes, and the uncanny ability to misjudge distance between platforms and jump and fall to the ground. It would be disappointing to say the least.

The reason I bring up comparisons to feline and canine breeds is that I realized that I literally have zero cool. I like to think I’m cool, I LOVE it in fact. I’ll occasionally have a good face and hair day and rock the perfect set of sunglasses and feel ready to take on rathtars. Then shit like today happens:

I posted a photo on instagram of myself goofily holding up Jenny Lawson’s new book, Furiously Happy, up to my face to make it look as though the lower half of my face was a maniacal smiling raccoon. My anxiety stared and muttered, “You’re such a loser,” In a deadpan tone, but I didn’t care at that point. I’d had a damn good day, thanks to my introversion I’d avoided paying a locksmith $300 to unstick my car key from the ignition (see my last post if you’re out of the loop), so I celebrated with wine, pot (I live in Washington, it’s legal!), voracious reading, watching Miranda with Susan, and going to the market to buy more wine.

I was in line at Walgreens, bottle of chardonnay tucked under my arm holding doritos while holding my phone in the other. Suddenly, my home screen glowed and I saw this message:


My internal voice was complete white noise, I was having a total out of body experience. I was vaguely aware of someone screaming “THE BLOGGESS APPROVES!!!!!” but because I was out of my body I swore up and down that it couldn’t have possibly been me screaming, I was out my body at the moment! Unfortunately, my body was being rude and continuing on without me. My anxiety was standing outside the store looking in at me from the window mouthing, “LOSER!!!!!!!” To me. Mortification set in as I returned to my present circumstances, I paid for my things without looking at the cashier and scurried out and into my car.

I sat and stared for a moment, the mortification still coursing through my body as my anxiety smoked wildly in the backseat remising the good old days when, “You could enter a store and buy alcohol without screaming non sequiturs out to the general public. You’ll never be able to go in there again, you know?”

I couldn’t even muster up the energy to tell her to fuck off, Jenny Lawson not only saw my photo but SHE LIKED IT! That may mean nothing to a lot of people, but BOY did that mean something to me. I mean this blog was inspired a lot by her writing and her boldness to be out and proud about her mental illnesses. My heart swelled and I drowned out my anxiety’s bitching as I took a screen shot and furiously began typing on my phone.

“What are you doing?” My anxiety droned from the back seat, puffing out some smoke as she eyed my furious thumbs.

“Posting another instagram.” I murmured


“HEY! The account has MY name on it so I will post what I damn well feel!”

I posted the screenshot explaining what had happened in the store and posted the photo, tagging Jenny again in hopes she’d see and get a laugh out of the little fuck up (I mean really, I think she of all people would appreciate my moment(s) of insanity).

I was pulling into my parking space at my apartment when anxious smoke suddenly surrounded me, “You’re so desperate for attention you posted a screenshot of a person liking a photo. You’re like a dog that annoying jumps and yips for attention.”

I groaned and rested my head on the steering wheel, “But it’s a funny story and I want her to know and laugh!”

“You do this with everyone,” the bitch purred, blowing smoke right into my face, “Every time someone you like shows you a little bit of positive attention, you lose the fake ‘cool’ act and become a bitch in heat, rolling over and showing your belly. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

I paused my breathing, refusing to breath in the smoke and let it cloud over me. I closed my eyes and opened the door quickly, grabbing my things and marching up to my apartment, “I’m spreading smiles and chuckles and fun. What do they call a girl who tries to pull people down to her level to make herself feel better?” I smirked at my waning anxiety, “A bitch.”

YouTube saved me $300 (and I met an author!)

“Life is like a box of disasters, you never know what you’re gonna face…”

-Bastardized Forrest Gump quote by yours truly

I went to bed and woke up in the same state: alone. Gloriously alone and happy to stretch my limbs and taking up the entire space of my queen size bed. I hate the stereotype that being alone is sad and depressing, for me it can be absolute paradise. It’s only been within the last year that I’ve reached a place where I’m comfortable discussing my preference and love of long periods of solitude.

I spent the entire morning by myself, not feeling in a mood to be social, but happy to be relaxing in bed watching various episodes of New Girl and Gilmore girls before my restlessness finally drew me out of bed and into my bathroom to shower quick and begin my makeup routine (Long rambling sentences strike again!).

I love makeup, I grew up vastly curious and captivated by it when I found it in my mother’s drawers and cupboards (I snooped a lot as a child, I blame it on curiosity). Then I went through a strange period in high school where I completely rejected it. I wouldn’t touch the stuff, considering myself a cut above all the other giggly high school stereotypes as I spent my cast on really weird random cat candles, cubic zirconia chokers, varying glittery fruit and animal earrings, and enough books to fill a library.

I loved books, I worshipped any moment my parents would take me  to the store and I could choose one or two (my dad always spoiled me with more, always encouraging me with a side whisper and nudge to get whatever I wanted). Makeup was considered frivolous in my family so I completely rejected it for many years in favor of buying random objects and books.

Falling in love with makeup was a slow process, not unlike how I deal with all of my relationships. Although I was dead set on completely rejecting it, I was still curious and captivated. I was curious by the transformations I saw women go through. It wasn’t until I began exploring my interest in all art and media that I truly explored my passion for makeup.

Today, I spent a glorious hour making up my face into a lovely natural look accentuating my natural features, all of it by my own hand and creativity. You have no idea how satisfying it is to say that. I made myself look beautiful, no one else but myself. I used my own skin as a canvas and made myself feel beautiful, turned into a piece of my own art. If anyone thought I wasn’t, I couldn’t have cared less.

I wore a simple ripped up Downton Abbey T-shirt with a skirt and treated to myself to a shake and drove around listening to music on various radio stations and my phone. I don’t know if anyone else does this, but I relish long drives by myself where I crank up the music and either sing at the top of my lungs or just listen and soak up the sound.

I found myself driving towards Third Place Books, a favorite shop of mine I often get lost in when I’m feeling restless for inspiration and imagination. After a long trek throughout the aisles of the store, I found Jenny Lawson’s new book Furiously Happy smiling up at me with the wide happy face of Rory the Raccoon on the cover (if this sentence seems insane to you than obviously you haven’t read or heard of Jenny Lawson and I am very sorry and sad for your empty days [AKA go find the book and read it because it’s FUCKING AMAZING]).

Upon approaching the registers of the store, I recognized one of the assistants from Emerald City Comic Con. I attend every year, and this year I attended a panel full of strong female authors, and she was definitely one of them! I stood in line struggling internally, my mother, an assistant librarian at a middle school, adored this author’s book, Hold Me Closer Necromancer. But my anxiety was right behind me whispering, “What if that’s the wrong author? What if you assume she’s the wrong person?”

I continued to struggle until it looked like another assistant was about to be free to help me. I relaxed until suddenly the author beckoned me to come to her register for check out. I swallowed as I approached and laid Furiously Funny down on the counter, “Great choice!” the authored said. I nodded as my anxiety snidely sneered, “Please for once, don’t be awkward!”

“Would it be totally awkward if I asked if I your panel at Emerald City Comic Con?” I blurted out faster than a homeless man answers “YES!” to “Do you want free socks?”

The author looked up, her expression unreadable, “No, I’ve gotten similar comments before,” She said simply, as if it was fairly chill and casual. I smiled and laughed, “I was hoping it was okay. My mother is an assistant librarian at a middle school, she loves your books and always sells it to students to read.”

The author (I should mention her name by now, it’s Lish McBride and she is super awesome!) smiled and told me, “PLEASE give her a big hug for me! I’ve got a panel at Geek Girl Con coming up.” I told her I’d be there and smiled on my way out, chuckling at the aghast expression on my anxiety’s face as the bitch slinked away into the dark while I drove off into the sunset.

I didn’t feel ready to return to my apartment, I was enjoying being alone in public (anyone with anxiety would understand how rare it is to feel that way). So I took the long way over to the public library, where they had tall windows that let in the natural light with comfortable couches that I could curl up on to enjoy my new book. I pulled up to a perfect parking space beside the library, glowing in anticipation of finding an excellent seat. I shifted into park and turned the ignition off, but my key seemed dead set on staying stuck in it. I tugged at them furiously for several minutes, staring wide eyed as I twisted my wrist furiously to try and loosen them without letting the rest of my body betray how panicked I was growing.

I swallowed hard when it sank in that I had parked in front of 3 sets of wide windows beside the library where a few people were set up. I never directly looked up to inspect any of them, but that bitch, anxiety, returned and assured me from the back seat , “They’re definitely watching! Not to interrupt you but you should really be aware that they’re judging your skills as a human being! Which you suck at by the way!”

I gritted my teeth, “Fine, bitch. I wanted to go home anyways…”

Fortunately, I could still start my car and drive. While my anxiety was obnoxiously blowing smoke in the back seat, my head logically thought out the next few steps: Get into my building’s parking garage, find a space, try to turn off car and wrench key out. the first three steps were followed through successfully, the last was another fail. I sighed as I called my older brother, who was always my first line of defense when my anxiety arose in the face of any level of impending disaster.

My brother calmly talked me through some suggestions, none of which worked. Hearing my anxiety, he suggested I call AAA, who were likely to easily help me out. Hanging up, I sat in my car in the dark parking garage for a long moment, feeling anxious and frustratingly out of options. I didn’t want to bother my father, who would laugh at me and give me grief for the state of my messy car (which I totally deserve, I’ve got fast-food bags EVERYWHERE), and AAA would mean having to interact with strangers and I just wasn’t feeling up for it. With a sigh, I got out of my car and climbed up to my apartment to do some self-research.

My father always encouraged my brother and myself to problem solve as we grew up, to try and figure things out on our own without any other guidance. At the time it seemed like a grueling frustrating obstacle course, but now it was pure instinct. Getting into my apartment, I went straight for my computer and consulted my beloved butler Google, who served me up a video with a couple of suggestions. I ran back down to my car and tried all the suggestions, none of them worked.

I exhaled in frustration and ran back up to my apartment, thinking to myself that this felt like karma for my not completing my 10,000 FitBit steps for the past two days (don’t judge! My depression caught up to me and left me in bed). I did a few more google searches, growing more specific when I finally found a video made my my new BFF Nick Oldham, who also owns a 2006 Ford Focus!

My anxiety hadn’t completely asphyxiated me with her anxious smoke, but she was definitely present throughout my endeavor murmuring with bitchy annoyance, “God AAA is going to think you’re such a spazz. This is like the third time you’ll have called them this year. Enjoy the judgement!”

I ran down to my car desperately, hoping to all gods and deities that this would work, one website had quoted $300 for a locksmith to remove a stuck key from a car ignition. I approached my car when the thought floated across my mind, “It’s damn good timing for you to start a blog two days ago, this will make for a good post”.

I opened my car and followed the instructions from Monsieur Oldham’s video when VOILA! My key came out and my panic and anxiety were gone!

“YASSSSS!!!!!” I screeched, jumping out of my car and clicking my heels with a little jump as I slammed the door and went back up to my apartment. I celebrated with a glass of wine at 2 PM, I figured I deserved it after all I DID THAT ALL BY MY FUCKING SELF! After a long struggle with understanding my anxiety, I’ve learned to relish the moments I can do things alone without the interference of others.

Too tired to go back out in public, I took off my bra and enjoyed my wine in bed while reading my new book, glowing with the happiness of an independent lady who knows how to take care of herself (but is unafraid to admit she needs help from others sometimes as well). I smiled as I curled up on my bed and cracked open my book, propping it open in my lap as I sipped my wine.

It’s insane to me how different I enjoy my day from other people. I know that for some people, a day is not full and satisfactory without a schedule full of activities to keep one busy and engaged in social interaction. Yeah….. I’d rather hug a cactus every day. I got out of bed, made myself feel beautiful, found a great book, interacted successfully with a great author, and solved a problem all by myself. This day was more full and satisfactory for me before 12 AM than most celebrities have in a life time. AND IT ISN’T EVEN OVER YET!!!!!

In an hour I’m visiting Susan (she’s my mother’s best friend who’s like my great aunt but due to recent traumas we are both now best friends) to watch Miranda and have a giddy time discussing everything we’re uncomfortable talking to other’s about. Like Diana Barry and Anne Shirley, she’s my bosom buddy (If you don’t get the reference YOU DON’T DESERVE TO KNOW ME!!!! [That’s a lie, you can get to know me, but expect a wee bit of judgment/pressure from me to force you to watch Anne of Green Gables {Spoiler alert: It’s amazing}]).

Given the positive flow this day has gone, I’ve chosen to name this the first day that I am Furiously Happy and will continue to strive to be so every day onwards. VIVA LA FURIOUSLY HAPPY!



My Mother told me to go ‘Decompose Myself’

I’m not lying, she actually told me that, and that wasn’t even the worst part of my day!

I came into work to find the Extended Day space flooded with children, apparently the space was being used for some science assembly. My headache kicked in during the chaotic hum as I sat and waited for my coworker, who showed up and appeared equally as enthused as I was (not even a little bit). By the time they place was cleared out and cleaned up, we only had 5 minutes to set up the tables and get snack ready before the kiddos show up.

Not 2 minutes after the bell rings and kids start showing up, a group of teachers come and begin setting up for Graduation on Monday (because graduating elementary school is oh so important….). They scootched us over in the space, taking away one of our tables in order to set up more chairs. My coworker was furious, stepping out to talk to our supervisor while I watched the kids *headdache intensifies* .

After a long struggle of trying not to flip off the condescending teachers who kept apologizing to us in a condescending “You’re beneath us, we do what we want” way, we moved the class to the library, whereupon we were instructed by an angry librarian that under no circumstances were we to touch the books as they were being inventoried (my god this is a long sentence….. Be prepared because this happens when I ramble a lot).

My coworker stepped out to deal with moving our stuff to the library while I dealt with angry whiney children who were bored. Once I fed the turkeys, I got a head count and settled down in a chair and held my head for dear life (headaches are really fun you guys…..).

My coworker had insisted that on Fridays they normally got out at 5:15, I had nodded with a stiff grin as I realized we were probably jinxed. We were, we left at 6:30.

After several minutes of screeching and hitting the steering wheel of my car (a surefire way to deal with frustrations of the workday), my headdache was gone and the worst of the day was over, I drove off into the sunset while thinking “HERE COMES THE WEEKEND!”

Oh yeah, you’re probably wondering about my mum telling me to go decompose. She called me on my way home from work and let me vent a bit about my long awful afternoon at work. She told me she loved me and to get home safe, “Enjoy your afternoon decomposing yourself!”

“… I’m sorry, did you just tell me to decompose myself?”

My mother was giggling on the other end, swearing she meant ‘decompressing’. I ‘suppose’ that could be what she meant, but I still think she hasn’t forgiven me for introducing myself as ‘The Dark Lord Chuckles the Silly Piggy’ at our church youth group when I was 14; so I wouldn’t put it past her to make a Freudian Slip… But at least we both got a good laugh out of it, “This is definitely going on my blog” I warned her. VOILA! Chuckles lives on!

Aquaman? More like AquaBLAND (I think I’m clever)

Okay let me start this off by explaining that I really don’t know anything about Aquaman other than his lack of fashion sense and stupid sounding power. I’ve never read any comics about him nor made any effort to learn about him because I JUST DON’T CARE.

My hatred for Aquaman is purely on principle at this point. It began with my stating to my friends, “When I get married, I’m all about having the groom and groomsmen being dressed as their super hero of choice under their tuxes, except Aquaman because he looks dumb.”

Of course my friends decided to be dicks and started insisting that they will force my groom to dress as Aquaman, thus beginning my salty hatred for the seaman (You can’t see it but I’m grinning and cackling at my own shitty puns. My anxiety is rolling her eyes at me and calling me a “loser”).

Fast forward to today, I still don’t like Aquaman but I’m curiously interested in the impending film because Jason Momoa is FIIIIIIIIINE (gimme some more Momoa I always say [“Jesus god please stop with the shitty puns!!!!!” my anxiety is groaning, “You’re not as funny as you think!”])

I’m chatting on IM with one of my best friends, Doc, who brings up Aquaman and of course my reaction was as follows:





Doc: this is your next blog post
I’m not entirely sure what the point of this post was other than to highlight the fact that I have a completely irrational hatred for Aquaman but I am all about Jason Momoa (seriously though, I stood 5 feet away from him at Emerald City Comic Con and I began hyperventilating in line, which was to meet Will Wheaton instead of Jason [because I’m unworthy of being in the presence of a man who could easily crush me using only his butt cheeks {definitely not the worst way to die, if I’m being totally honest}]) also that I have incredibly magical conversations with friends about things that will likely never happen.
Viva la Momoa butt!!!!!!

What is in a name?

“What is in a name? That which we call a troll. By any other name would also smell like feet?”

-Bastardized Shakespeare provided by yours truly

So I’m sure that at least 2 out of the 3 people who read this blog (those two people might very well be my parents…) are probably wondering what the hell a ‘Wandless Wanderer’ is. If you’re anything like me (doubtful) your first thought would be, “Harry Potter reject loses $50 souvenir wand from Florida vacation.” Well you and myself would be wrong in that assumption!

My father goes through phases of interest not unlike I do. He’s always finding new hobbies to explore and ways to create and learn. His most recent adventure in exploration has been diving into our familial history and growing out our vast family tree. Not a week would go by where I wouldn’t get at least 10 texts about the various crazy ancestors he’s dug up that I’m related to. Let me give you a quick list of the cool cats I’m related to (I’d include how I’m related to them but that would mean logging into Ancestry.com and following the confusing lines of the family map and doing the math to figure out whether they’re first cousin, second, third, or last place in the race. I’m sure my father is grumbling as he reads this and thinking “I gave her all the information already! Why did we ever agree to trade the gypsies our moonshine for this stupid girl! Well she does draw pretty pictures…. And she does answer my texts to come refill my drinks….. Okay We’ll keep her for now.”):

Charlemagne (who isn’t related to him?)

Edgar Allen Poe (Thus quote the Raven “That girl is a nerd”)

Paris and Hector of Troy (Totally explains my affinity for crushing on guys who are already taken…..)

There are more but those are the ones that stand out in my mind when I’m having awkward small talk with people around ancestry (yes, awkward small talk about ancestry with me happens way more than you’d think…).

During one of my father’s many discoveries, we found an ancestor named Elspeth Wandless. I saw the name jump out at me and immediately thought, “I’M RELATED TO A WITCH!” Because any name out of the ordinary that includes the word “wand” obviously must mean witchcraft!

My dad gave me his usual small smile with an eyebrow raised before sighing, “I highly doubt it…” but I think he was just lying because he didn’t want me to find out he’d thrown out my Hogwarts acceptance letters (He better have at least recycled them…).

I talked to my cousin a few days later, who related to me that ‘Wandless’ was essentially a scottish term for “unfortunate” (AKA the wand represents a dick and something shitty happened and now you are left without a dick. You are dickless, but we’ll call it ‘wandless’ to make it sound more mystical and less crass).

Hammer on the nail for me to be related to someone with a last name that means unfortunately dickless, not to say that I desire to have a penis but I have suffered my misfortunes.

The name stuck with me, I added the ‘wanderer’ at the end given how much time I spend by myself wandering and wondering about my misfortunes.

Fuck it’s time for me to try and end this post eloquently again….. I really do suck at this, it’s giving me PTSD flashbacks to college writing essays and trying to find a smooth way to conclude.

This isn’t a fucking essay and I’m not being graded so I will end it in however way I choose; with a naughty word: tits *childish giggle*

Anxious Enough

I’m not enough of anything. Not funny enough, creative enough, tall enough, short enough, pretty enough, plain enough, really just not enough of anything.

I’m not stating it looking for sympathizers who read this and think, “Oh she doesn’t know her worth! She’s more than enough! In fact, she’s perfect, lets cast her in the next Star Wars as another mysterious female protagonist who’s later revealed to be Kylo Ren’s long lost twin (I know what you’re thinking ‘But that happened in the original trilogy!’ Well I figure Hollywood is so hard up for movie material Disney is recycling all their cartoons, so I KNOW they’ll recycle that plot twist at some point [please don’t make me kiss Kylo Ren before learning he’s my brother, it’s been nearly four decades and a lot of us are still uncomfortable with that Leia moment…]).”

I suppose I’m just shouting it out into the void with hopes that all the other people who aren’t enough know they’re not alone; I mean that’s one of the base human desires, right? And maybe have a salsa party if someone knows how to prepare really good pico de gallo (really I’m just here for the pico de gallo, to be perfectly honest…. someone suggested there might be some here…. That someone might have been me….)

I suppose I ought to dive into the definition of “enough” so I can better explain to the void why I am not, in fact, enough. When I googled “enough” (Because I’m far too lazy to get up to find my actual dictionary on the bookshelf) the first link that popped up was to a wikipedia page for the 2002 J-Lo film about an abused housewife who gets revenge against her dick-stained husband (totally amazing movie, BTW). Scrolling past the IMdB links, I found a dictionary site which defines the adjective as “Adequate for the want or need; sufficient for the purpose or to satisfy desire.”

I’m not creative enough for art. Don’t get me wrong, I love the work I create and produce (I realize now none of you know what I do so here’s the reader’s digest version: I’m currently working for a school district as a floater for a before/after school care program for 11 elementary schools while on the side I’m working on becoming an independent artist creating anything out of zentangle, water color, sketching, oil painting, quilling, photography, and the occasional knitted hat), but my ideas are never 100% creatively original. I am always searching for ideas and inspiration be it online through pinterest and google to visiting art galleries and museums in my travels. I learn/copy techniques to learn and be inspired and incorporate them into my own work and designs. It might sound ridiculous but I feel like I can’t take full credit because it wasn’t 100% creativity by me and only me. I feel like a fraud at times; I worry about the day an angry artist hunts me down and yells about the rose design they’d posted ‘How-to-draw” steps for that I used in my multi-award winning painting hanging in the Louvre (hey, dream big, right?).

Of course some of you think that scenario sounds highly improbable. Well it is, but try telling that to my anxiety (that bitch is way more creative than I can ever dream of being. I should let my anxiety do the creating while I do the selling… Nah, that bitch would insist on taking all the profit and credit and stop creating just to spite me…… Anxiety is a bitch, you guys. You know you’re fucked when your mental illness has more original creativity than you do…).

I’m not sure what my point of this whole post was, but I’m going to go with the flow of my random shouts into the void and discuss my anxiety. My anxiety…….. My anxiety is a bitch (as said above). I imagine my anxiety dressed up like a trashier and more worn down Jessica Rabbit who breathes noxious anxious smoke around me while telling me why I am not enough. My anxiety has been telling me I’m not enough since before I was ever conceived, the very idea of me was not enough for that bitch.

Starting a blog was out of the question for years; my anxiety cackled at the thought, “Oh hell no, you’re not enough to blog about, what the hell is there for you to write? You’re not funny enough, your life isn’t exciting enough, hell you weren’t even good enough for the college paper you joined and wrote two awful articles for before quitting (one of which was basically written by my roommate as it was just all her opinions I had asked for the night before the article was due). You are not enough to become a blogger, Joy.” She said with a puff of smoke and she sashays around me snootily.

The bitch was right, I could feel it. Even in that moment I was staring at the options page in the process of creating a blog on wordpress.com trying not to have a complete meltdown. The bitch laughed at me for the entire day as I avoided looking at the open tab, I couldn’t make up my mind on what kind of blog I was supposed to make! The options were so diverse and separated from one another, health and wellness was separate from fashion and lifestyle as well as Media and entertainment. I wanted to be all of them! I didn’t want to choose just one, I wasn’t good enough for any of them!

The bitch was peering behind my shoulder about to blow more anxious smoke when I muttered, “Fuck it!” and chose “writing”. That’s really all I want to do is write about anything and everything and nothing at all. Just a place where I can shout into the void. My anxiety was in shock, the bitch choked on her own anxious smoke while I smirked and began to think, “I’m definitely anxious enough.”

So let the writing commence! *Cue inspirational music*