I’ve never had anything more than a short attention span. Rooms always end up half organized, agendas half written in. What I do though is fall 2000% in love with things and become their number one advocate. (I think I’ve told over 20 friends about cupcakerie.)

  • Johnny Cash’s quote when asked his idea of paradise: “This morning, with her, having coffee.”
  • this Etsy store where I bought my sister some prints for her birthday in January
  • I’ve decided on a winter wedding (still need a boy though). Favors will include coffee with customized coffee collars and waffles. Lots of white. Lots of fur. Lots of gold. Lots of red lipstick.
  • my new super secret pinterest board. (only one friend knows)
  • coffee. in all forms. hot, iced, cupcake, creme brûlée.
  • #100happydays
  • my favorite red lipstick: nars red lizard
  • cupcakes from a teeny cupcake bakery about a block from my apartment called cupcakerie. specifically their cinco de mayo.
  • duck rillette (please don’t ever leave our menu, I adore you)
  • my citrus print and the handwritten note of brittany wright of wright kitchen
  • bolthouse’s green goddess juice
  • to do lists and idea notebooks

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my hair is greasy in the morning. no, no let me rephrase. my hair (sometimes) has that oh-my-god-you’d-be-lucky-waking-up-next-to-this look but the SECOND I step outside that door, it appears as though I bathed in last night’s fryer oil. **disclaimer: this may indicate I really do need glasses. instead of wedding gifts, I want our guests …

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In ode of Harry’s surgery tomorrow (yikes!), I’d like to showcase his best quality – just how close he will get. Love you.

Harry facts:

  • nicknames include: Sugar Britches, Puppadew, Sugar Pie
  • if you throw a piece of food across the room, he will flawlessly sneak it out of the air but the second a new face is there to watch… he gets stage fright.
  • he winds up to jump on the bed
  • he likes to put his head on a pillow
  • grapes are one of his favorite foods (along with jelly beans and pork tenderloin)

 

What is it like to be a twenty something year old? Normal twenty-something-year-olds believe it or not are just a tad different than twenty-something-year-olds thought to be known by sites such as #thoughtcatalog and #buzzfeed and #whateverelseihadtounfollow. We’re not (always) these young adults fighting to figure out what we want out of life. It’s not so glamorous (unless you’ve seen my instagrams) and believe it or not, it’s really not that hard. Try and think of a better time you’ll have in your life…except for college.. RIP college. You are on your own (unless you’re still drinking from the bottle Mommy and Daddy are providing) ((I get it, you’re saving money)) and you ONLY HAVE TO worry about yourself.

As a twenty-something, dinner consists of pizza or some other fast food/cafe/coffee shop food that we frequent many times a week. Breakfast looks more like four large coffees and lunch** is about as existent as my love life. Considering I’m at work six or seven days out of the week, dinner usually consists of 1/2 a caesar salad, no fish, light dressing and our chicken dumpling soup. We eat pizza about three or four times a week. There’s this holy grail of pizzas, the steak and mushroom pizza we call it, that would change the beliefs of some of the world’s most strict vegetarians.

As a twenty-something, laundry doesn’t happen as much as I’d like. Lucky for me, there is a free washer and dryer in the basement my apartment. Even luckier for me, there is also a free washer and dryer in the basement of my parent’s house that doesn’t resemble a scene straight from the exorcist. (+1: Harry is at Mom and Dad’s).

As a twenty-something, I threw myself into my job which happens to be a lot easier when you love it. I’m not really just talking “love,” I’m more on the grounds of someone that resembles a stage five, someone who might be one step away from a restraining order. This is what we do as a twenty-something; we find something we love and we take off.

As a twenty-something, we drink. And we drink a lot. Crashing on a friend’s couch is more prominent than we’d like, but it’s part of that “carefree vibe” we’re trying to give off. Who needs a membership to the MoMA to see the new art deco exhibit when you can take a look at my pillow case after a night out?

As a twenty-something, I have more open bottles of wine in my apartment than I’d like to admit. Let me paint you a teeny picture: I’d get home from work around 10:30 (this was in the midst of my Breaking Bad days), crack said bottle of wine, watch one and three quarters of an episode, and doze off with every light on and my glass a third full. Small victory: haven’t spilled one yet.

As a twenty-something, we are too lazy to get up and get important things like chocolate.

As a twenty-something, I have tried and failed too many DIY art projects. cc: DIY coasters, DIY scrapbook paper heart, DIY United States mural.

As a twenty-something, I buy things for my apartment that aren’t *exactly* what I should be spending my money on. “But it’s vintage” and “but it was only $19” and “but I saw it on Pinterest!” are all, what I consider, valid reasons. I have a beautiful vintage wooden ironing board underneath the windows in my dining room which in theory is supposed to be the home to many succulent succulents planted in many multicolored vases, but as of now, there are three geometric (vintage) vases each with a dead white hydrangea.

As a twenty-something, I am proud of myself. Proud of my career path, proud of what I’ve accomplished, proud of what will happen in twenty fourteen.

As a twenty-something, I eat too much cheese.

**lunch will be eaten if Dad takes me out.

to talk about art and its meaning

to drink gin and tonics in short glasses

to wear wrinkly socks and sweater tights

to observe men’s fashion from every corner of the earth

to discuss the meaning of “art” and “talent” until breathless

to doodle bridges and eyeglasses and cigarettes and foreign landmarks

to take pictures of croissants and cheese

to buy worn in boots so they slouch in all the right places

to continue to obsess over helvetica

to read magazines cover to cover

There are many things in this lifetime I do not understand; things like why Murphy’s Law exists and seems to be the only cause of pressure on my back or why less than 15% tippers exist in the world. Maybe I simply don’t understand how my cat can sleep all day and still yawn fifteen minutes after he wakes. Or maybe I don’t get why traveling isn’t mandatory for every twenty-one year old. But. The one thing that does not make sense to me is something very simple and something that is very easily avoidable.

So here it is, I have written an open letter to people who put jam in cakes.

I have three questions for you. Why? Why? Why would you do this to me? Let me paint a little picture for you. I am sitting down at table twelve sipping on one of my four drinks in front of me after I’ve eaten every “finger-sized” appetizer this wedding has to offer. I’ve actually become quite good friends with each of the servers, especially Tom. He will pass other guests to give me the first picking of a new hors d’oeuvres as I’ll give him a casual wink and stuff a brie filled piece of phyllo dough shamelessly into my mouth. I’ve eaten three twelve-inch plates of the rich creamy everything. Pieces of steak so buttery it would change the beliefs of a vegetarian, salmon so perfectly cooked you actually vocalize to your not so friendly neighbor how delicious it is complete with a few “OH MYs” as if something had startled you.

It’s time for cake. Can I even fit a piece of that beautiful pearly white cake in my stomach? As my mouth begins to fill with saliva, I daydream about this cake. Is it chocolate? Vanilla? RED VELVET? (To my future husband: our cake will be red velvet with cream cheese frosting. And if you don’t agree, well then we might as well call it off now.) The bride and groom finally make their way over to said cake, we all wait to ooh and ahh and laugh as the two lovebirds smear cake all over each other’s panic-stricken faces. Here’s another thing I don’t understand. Why has this become a tradition? I’ve been doing a pretty good job myself with this whole food in mouth thing and trying not to get it on my face. I’m batting a solid .900 in this department.

The cake has been placed in front of me. I see a chocolate cake with white butter cream and some sort of red glossy spread in between. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS. I really and truly do not understand it. Jam should be (p)reserved for toast or maybe a nice crumpet. NOT cake. I am now frustrated with the turn my life has taken.

Tom? Get me another gin and tonic gin.

I need to start blogging more, even if it’s for one reader. And sure sure sure I say this pretty often but with no school work to do, it should be pretty easy right? Here’s to getting back into blogging even if they’re as irrelevant as this irrational fear post.

1. Ever since I lived with Laura, or actually ever since I knew her, I’ve been afraid that if I fall or trip – I’d break all my teeth, as if my arms suddenly went missing. Not because she threatened me or anything (although she was a bully), but it was one of her fears. So thanks Laur, we are now one.

2. Walking in between a parked car and another concrete surface or car, I have this overwhelming feeling that it’s going to jump forward and pin me against said hard surface. But this might only happen in Saw.

3. Stepping out or onto an elevator, if the elevator plunges down (because the cables are cut obviously) my leg will get chopped off. (usually my right leg)

4. Not moving to New York at one point in my life. Although this is more of just a fear, it’s not really irrational.

5. Sending my resume to GQ. I’m shaking just typing this one.