Tag Archives: writing

There Is No Greater Pleasure In Life – Except There Is

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I’m currently sitting in a room of the criminal justice center, surrounded by a group of my fellow unbiased peers.

I assure you, none of them have formed any prejudices in the course of their lives and they possess the ability, as do I, to hold someone’s fate in their completely non-judgmental hands.

Of course, I’m the first one of 45 to be called to the jury box.

Did it not even matter that I checked the box saying I knew a judge, and an attorney, and a law enforcement official, and have been the victim of a crime?

Well, what in Sam’s hill is the point the boxes then?

To waste my TIME?

Maybe there should have been a box for “almost married the State’s Attorney’s nephew.”

Then I wouldn’t be in this mess.

And at least something good would have come out of that relationship.

And, of course, it’s 2:15 and they have yet to give us our promised lunch break.

Which wouldn’t be such of a big, hairy deal had I not decided that showering and eating was not nearly as important as an extra ten minutes of sleep.

No, you’re right, I couldn’t possibly have eaten and showered in ten minutes anyway. The dice was loaded from the start.

And, of course, I tripped over my dress pants in front of the entire courtroom, on the way to the jury box.

Would it KILL this town to have a decent seamstress?

I can only hope, in the event I flip out and do something so incredibly dumb someday, that I am lucky enough as to be offered this same level of justice. I also assure you that all of us are completely happy to be here serving our civic duty with nothing in exchange except the joy of knowing justice was served in the quickest way possible, so we could all get back to texting in the car.

Now I’d like my $13.00 please so I can go put a down payment on the parking ticket I just received so I wouldn’t have to walk two miles to the courthouse.

Truly honored,

Blunt. (insert one of those stupid heart shaped thingys that I don’t know how to do and never will)

 

That Time The World Just Made Sense

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No, you’re completely right. That never happened.

It’s almost like my witty, overly-dramatic titles don’t even fool you anymore. I guess that could be a good thing, cus it means we’re getting past the honeymoon phase of our relationship, eh? But if we’re being honest, which I think we are, my mom never thought it would last.

First, I’d like to start by saying: Gentlemen, I feel your pain.

I am QUITE aware of how difficult it is to find witty, brilliant, beautiful, self-confident women in this world because I have been searching with eyes wide open. And let me tell you something, these eyes are really starting to hurt from all the wide-openness. They’re all dry and reddish and people are really starting to question the meaning behind the name of this website.

So it’s a good thing the search is over.

Two weeks ago, I packed up the convertible, put my hair in rollers and said, “Mom, I’m gonna go be a stewardess.” With Simon and Garfunkle playing in the background, I drove off to California with a mystery boy in a velvet shirt, leaving only my record collection behind for my little brother.

Nope. But what I did was EVEN BETTER.

I packed up my friend’s Honda, drove to Chicago with a very bad stomach ache, a very full bladder, a McCafe that I now refer to as “the mistake,” and a GPS that had lost its ever-loving mind to meet up with two of the most amazing women the universe has to offer!

The flood gates of heaven’s splendor have finally opened and I have discovered where the world’s coolest women have been hiding: behind the comments section of this blog. I’m pretty sure a small piece of Chicago exploded from all the awesomeness of our reunion. You can click here for Lola Lakely’s report on the night, and here for V from Uncorked.

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As could be expected, we did all the normal things that girls do when they get together. There were super tight pj’s, pillow fights, feathers, kissy face self portraits, boy-bashing, singing into hairbrushes, and jumping on beds while listening to Madonna.

You know, the usual.

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Or, we profusely mocked all of those things. I’ll let you decide which scenario actually happened.

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I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been sulking in the sadness and the void that I feel without these ladies around.  Why do you think it has taken me so long to post a blog?


My Last Words Before Turning Into A Vampire

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I cannot think of a solitary moment in life that is more optimistic than when you are listening to a high school valedictorian speech. These kids are sitting there, staring at a blank page. They have not yet been faced with life-altering decisions. Their hearts are still vaguely in one piece. They haven’t made a series of poor choices that has left them divorced, in debt, and jaded for all eternity. They aren’t quite sure what the Freshman 15 even is. They barely understand the concepts of financial responsibility and what it’s like to work a 9-5 job that makes you want to wish you were never born, just because you have no other option. Their dreams have not yet had a chance to breathe, much less die.

I get all teary every time.

I could listen to valedictorian speeches all day. Oh wait, I have been. A local TV station has been replaying all of the public school graduation videos from this past spring. For me, it’s a little slice of heaven. For everyone else, it is a rare and peculiar form of self-inflicted torture.

I am in love with school. And not just because I have an absurd obsession with the smell of school supplies. I love the feeling of that first day. A new start. Endless possibilities. Football games. Catching up with old friends, making new ones. That sickening feeling when you walk past the one person you will never have the guts to talk to. Add the fact that school starts in the fall and you have what might be a perfect storm of awesomeness.

I wish I could make a career out of attending school.

But Brit, didn’t you quit college?

I’m sorry, what?

Of course, high school is also vicious. Girls really are mean. Teenagers are unforgiving and selfish. And in the process of everyone trying to find themselves, we all have a tendency to lose a little bit of dignity. But even though I had my fair share of tearful nights and end of the world moments, when I think back on those days, they were incredible. There’s nothing like it. And never will be again.

Easy solution? Become a vampire and stay 17 forever.

What I’m going to do in the meantime? Make a sack lunch and watch Clueless.

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Stay tuned. My next blog will feature pics and stories from my epic weekend in the Windy City with Lola Lakely and Uncorked!!!

I’m In A Relationship With Life, And It’s Complicated

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So what is the secret, exactly?

And please refrain from referring me to the best-selling book, Secret, as highly endorsed by Oprah. I don’t care much for self-help books. Or Oprah. Or tube tops. And more obvious things like Ranch dressing and humidity.

I’d say the majority of my life I’ve been what you might call “a planner.” And no, not like that. I haven’t had my wedding dress picked out since 7th grade, but at the same time I try to make sensible, well-thought out decisions. And I own a label maker. Of course, this is also coming from the person who gave her family 2 weeks notice that she was moving to London, and who also started a retail store with no prior retail or business experience. So if I were you, I’d take whatever I say with a grain of salt. Perhaps, several.

Maybe like even one of those cute little mini-shakers from Crate and Barrel.

One of my favorite movie lines is from Dan In Real Life when Steve Carrell says, “Instead of telling your young people to plan ahead, we should tell them to plan to be surprised.”

If you think about it, life is nothing, but a series of surprises. Rarely have I heard anyone say, “Why yes, my life has turned out most beautifully, exactly as I expected it would.” Both the best and worst things in life always blindside you on some idle Tuesday.

This is especially disturbing news for someone such as myself, who hates surprises. I didn’t even like Happy Meals as a kid. Or the DumDums with the big question mark on them. Screw that.

I think how each of us defines a happy and fulfilling life is continually changing. I wrote a ridiculously honest post a couple months ago about broken dreams – all of the different ways I had envisioned my life to be at certain milestones, and the harsh contrast of reality.

So is it dangerous to dream?

Is our happiness measured by the achievement of dreams, or plans? Or is the destruction of dreams the only way we truly live and grow? Are they, in fact, the only thing that forces us to change? If left to our own demise, who of us would really seek change? Rarely, is it our idea to venture outside of what is comfortable.

And if broken dreams are inevitable, how do we maintain happiness amid the constant challenge of rebuilding? I don’t know.

I’ve never known.

Cus, lately, I wish my biggest dream was just to build a sandcastle on the beach. With my mom.

How To Avoid Awkward Encounters On Your Birthday

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Question: Why wear the world’s most unflattering, horizontal-striped dress on your birthday?

Answer: So that you have something even more upsetting than your birthday to focus on.

Another viable reason could be because it slightly entirely resembles The Hamburglar. Cus isn’t that what birthdays kind of are? One giant Hamburglar, sneaking up on you to steal another year?

This year has been interesting. My career has taken a direction that I couldn’t be more pleased with. I’ve taught myself how to take photos with a fancy camera, which I’ll never fully know how to use. I started eating Flintstones chewables, and I’ve never felt better. Friends have moved away. Friends have come home. I’ve been severely depressed, and unbelievably happy. Relationships have come and gone. I’ve met some amazing new people. Cut out some not so amazing people. Started eating tomatoes. Almost died behind the wheel of my car about 75 times. I changed my phone number.  I repainted my living room.

Yea. That sounds about right.

But the most important thing I’ve learned is: How To Avoid Awkward Encounters On Your Birthday.

1. Stay inside your house for three consecutive days.

2. Refuse to shower during that time.

3. On the off chance that you are tempted to leave your house, remember that you haven’t showered.

4. Make a pan of brownies.

5. Eat the entire pan of brownies, and pass out.

6. Set a goal to watch the entire Sex and the City series.

7. Resolve that there is no better time than now to start achieving your goals.

8. Don’t run out of food.

9. When you run out of food, use your Mary Kate Olson sunglasses to disguise your grossness and get carry out pasta.

10. Question why you own Mary Kate Olson sunglasses.

11. Remember that some of life’s mysteries are just too complex to unvail.

12. Cry.

13. Realize even your Mary Kate Olson sunglasses couldn’t disguise your puffy eyes.

14. Finish the box of wine.

15. Realize that expiration dates are there for a reason, and they best not be challenged, especially when it comes to boxed wine.

I’m happy to report that (1) I don’t look a day over 45, and (2) I did survive my birthday weekend.

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I went out one itty bitty time, but the rest of my weekend was spent in hiding with my friend Jo, and can be described exactly as on the numbered list above. It. was. fabulous.

jo-dana

 

5 Things Men Do That Annoy The Crap Outta Women

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Wait, why are you holding a giant calendar with red X’s all over it?

…And why is there a whistle around your neck?

Did you recently become a gym teacher?

STOP TAPPING YOUR FOOT! What do you mean it’s only been a week and I’ve already broken my promise of posting on Monday, Wednesday and Friday?

Well, well, smartypants.. perhaps you missed the memo where I mentioned that I’m now going off the ancient Mayan calendar. Bam, roasted! That also means that you’ve only got until 2012 before the earth explodes, which makes this whole broken promise thing seem a bit trite, eh?

Besides, you need to lay off me cus my birthday is on Friday and I’m having a breakdown.

Now. I realize that I’m pretty rough on women in this neck of the woods.* And guys, I feel like you might think you you have a free pass around these parts.* Well, sike. You better not even think you do, cus you don’t. I will further support that statement with the following numbered list of 5 Things Men Do That Annoy The Crap Outta Women:

1. Leave the bathroom floor covered in water. Question: Are you capable of washing your face and/or hands without turning the entire bathroom into a slip ‘n slide? Question: Is it possible to take a shower and actually step onto the conveniently provided mat when drying off?

2. Don’t properly take care of your feet. I’m not exactly sure what happens here. Question: Why does almost every man between the ages of 18 and 80 have at least one (if not all) deformed toenail? It’s either yellow, or crusty, or infested with some sort of mystery fungus that is resistant to over the counter treatments. In most cases, all of the above.

3. Leave a new toilet paper roll on top of the counter instead of putting it on the holder. Question: I’m too furious to ask a question right now.

4. Always being the hero, even if it requires making up a fake crisis. Man: Did you see that guy? He totally just checked you out! Who does he think he is? Can’t he see you’re with me? He’s totally staring at you?! Girl: Um, I didn’t even notice anything. Man: Stay right here. I’m gonna take care of this. Girl: Can’t we just go eat? I’m hungry.

5. Refuse to check the order at the drive thru. You know it’s gonna be wrong, it always is. Ask my metro sexual bff Kenny what happens when he fails to check my order and it’s wrong. Just ask him. [Speaking of, Happy Birthday Kenny. It just isn’t the same without you around here to throw a highly inappropriate combined birthday party with.]

Ladies, please feel free to add to the list.

That being said, guys, you know I love you. You fill the world with muscles, sweat, problem solving skills, a wealth of useless facts and movie trivia, the ability to vaguely determine the general origin of a scary car noise, and an endless supply of “It’s going to be okay’s.” But, sometimes, I just want to strangle you with that loosely fitted metro sexual tie.

*I’ve recently spent a lot of time at my parents’ country house. Sorry.

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Check out my latest photography post Where Have All The Good Looking People Gone?

 

Brace Yourself Kid, This Is BIG

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Do you have your big girl pants on? If so, please check the fly because that would be grossly inappropriate for this blog. Are you ready to GET SERIOUS!? Are you ready to have your mind blown? I sure hope so, cus the last thing I need is for you to come crying to me when you’re caught off guard with my big announcement.

Crap. But what if it isn’t really that big?** And now I’ve built it up and you have all these unrealistic expectations of big-ness… Ugh, I suck under pressure.***  Well, here goes. Today, I received the worst news that someone such as myself could possibly receive. Aside from my leaky faucet, broken toilet and Corey Haim’s accidental overdose.****

**[that’s what she said]

***[guys, come on]

****[that was an exaggeration, I wasn’t even sure who he was. I’m just relieved it wasn’t that hottie from Rookie of the Year.]

I have been officially registered for a 5k.

I guess it’s only fair that I tell you the whole story before you cast harsh judgements on my friend for such an unspeakable crime. In a moment of weakness (that term is open to interpretation), I promised I would run (that term is also open to interpretation) a 5k in the event that my friend quit smoking.

There I go again, sacrificing my own happiness for the health of others. I know you’re thinking that I got myself into this mess, but really?! Who actually follows through on a deal like that?  Am I really THAT out of shape that people would do just about anything to see me jog a few laps? That’s pathetic. I am, of course, referring to ‘the people,’ not me.

What’s that? You’re not impressed with my crappy announcement?

Would it be better if you were eating cupcakes right now? Precisely.

And who’s fault is that?

But you want to know something else that’s sorta BIG?

This little drug delivery service blog is approximately one year old!!

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As I might have mentioned on a couple hundred occasions, I’m not the best at remembering or commemorating anything where I have to remember a date, such as my own birthday. I know I launched this some time last March, but I couldn’t tell you the date even if it meant I’d never have to eat another brussel sprout again.

Wait. I’m 27. I guess that time has already come.

Anyway, I’m not one for celebrating my own birthday, much less my blog’s. And I’ve noticed it’s very common to give away gift cards or have some sort of contest in honor of the occasion, however, I think that’s lame. Not when I’m the one who wins it though, cus then it’s very non-lame.

blunt-deliverySince I can’t give away what you really want, which is a personal visit to your doorstep, I thought I would do some spring cleaning and have a Blunt auction sale. Just shoot me an email if you would like to bid on any of the following items. Don’t pussyfoot around, cus I have a feeling there will be some stiff competition. [I know you might think it’s a bit stingy to have an auction sale to celebrate my anniversary, but I just think it’s good business sense]

1. The entire Jennifer Lopez chick-flick collection.

2. A stack of unpaid bills, most of them still in the envelope.

3. The OFFICE fridge phrase-magnets.

4. 7,500 Chicken Soup for the Soul books. I’ve never read them, but every time they publish one of my stories they send me a truckload.

5. A pelican pillow that’s been sitting in my garage for 3 years. It’s origin is still a mystery.

Guys, really, it’s MY pleasure. You are, after all, the best readers in the UNIVERSE.

rockford-il-portrait-photographerCheck out my photography blog, I’ve got a new hottie up for you. And, if you’re not already following me on FACEBOOK, click here and get your act together!

Am I Too Late For A Thanksgiving Post?

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Your guess is as good as mine why two “loving parents” would allow their only daughter to eat corn on the cob directly off a dirty picnic table. Or to wear that Little House On The Prairie getup, that was clearly too small.

I was going to title this post: That Time I Tried To Run Away [OR Why I Hate Dogs]. But the truth is, there isn’t much to say about running away. I didn’t get very far. I have rather protective parents and an overly paranoid mother who is a very, very light sleeper. Plus they live on a dead end street in the middle of nowhere. Just saying, it was probably my most unsuccessful idea ever. Aside from the lemonade stand and the time I asked my dad for a horse and he scammed me into raising sheep.

Oh, and the whole dog thing is a mystery. I just hate them with a fiery passion. The smaller they are, the more unjustified hatred is directed toward them. Don’t get your panties in a bundle trying to figure it out. And please don’t use the word “panties.”

As usual, I’m fashionably late in getting to the Thanksgiving post. Despite my looming depression over the past year, I have a lot to be thankful for. You, for one. I realize I’m a horrible blog owner. I hardly post. I don’t always comment on your comments. And I’m an altogether frustrating mystery.

But you, you’re so forgiving of my wayward actions. You love me in spite of my disappearing acts. Truth be told, this blog has been a great source of inspiration for me in the past year. It’s been a place where I could honestly vent my frustrations and hopefully, you could too. The fact that any of you take the time to read my incomprehensible ramblings is more confusing than why my mom collects all those free gold-lined address labels that come in the mail, yet she refuses to use them because they are so ugly.

Although I often fill these virtual pages with rants and sarcasm, I am a very blessed individual. 2009 may have given me a round house kick to the stomach, but I have quite a few things to be thankful for:

photography

florence

best-friends

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babies

So there you have it.

Now stop labeling me a Crabby McUnthankfulPants. Next post we will be returning to BitterTown and your regularly scheduled whining.

 

Dear 2009, I’m Ready To Forgive You For Your Bastardly Ways

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You know how when you meet someone for the first time and there’s just that instant connection? As they explained on Sleepless in Seattle: magic. The stars align, and in that moment it’s as if the whole universe existed just to bring the two of you together?

Well, that is not what happened when I was first introduced to 2009.

The year began with me laying in the darkness of my room, unshowered [for what might have been days], surrounded by leftover holiday candy wrappers, recently unemployed, and staring at the ceiling while listening to news anchors give unbiased coverage of the upcoming election make virtual love to Obama.

I thought about making resolutions, but then remembered I had just published my first story in Chicken Soup for the Soulwhich talked about precisely how much I hated resolutions.

As the year went on, I started devising a list of things that I’d never forgive 2009 for:

  • stealing my best friend away and shipping him to San Diego
  • the extra 15 pounds I put on by working in a bank office for 2 years but always justified with the fact that I made lots of money
  • losing said bank job and no longer having an reason as to why I was toting around an extra 15 pounds
  • making Illinois not only one of the most corrupt places to live, but one of the hardest places to get a job
  • causing various family members to get really sick and/or lose their minds
  • that spot on my carpet I couldn’t get out, even with the stuff that Billy Mays told me to buy
  • Billy Mays dying
  • my air conditioning bill
  • all of those people who rejected my story submissions thus deepening my depression and making my goal of becoming a full time writer seem impossible
  • turning 27

The list goes on, but the point is: it was just one of those years. Unfortunately, I felt like I’d been in “one of those years” for nearly a decade. It didn’t help that everyone around me was talking about CHANGE, yet I knew nothing was going to be different for me. Every passing year that I was working some random job instead of doing what I was passionate about, I found it harder to put on a happy face. Then, depression’s finest looking wing man, guilt, strolled in wearing a nicely coordinated suit. I started to feel guilty for being depressed. Cus, I mean, hey, I’m still breathing right?

Wait, hold on a second.

Oh, okay. Yes. The answer is yes, I’m still breathing. And on top of being able to breathe, the second installment of the Twilight Saga was released. There were things everywhere to be thankful for. Yet, I still struggled. I didn’t even put up a CHRISTMAS TREE, which nearly resulted in excommunication from my own family. If we were Catholic, that is.

But then. Irony struck my life again, when a routine email inquiry turned into a meeting on a snowy morning during Christmas week [that I almost blew off cus I love sleep too much and my car sucks in the snow and I had procrastinated all my shopping but mainly I just like sleep too much]. That meeting turned into a job as Senior Editor for a new magazine, in which I will be able to be as creative as I want. Which by the way, never happens in real life jobs. And, she found me in a random Google search in the middle of the night.

And now if you’ll lay back on the counseling couch, I’d like to say that dreams are a tricky thing. They can be the only driving force that keeps you going at times, yet the constant pursuit of dreams -accompanied by disappointment- can also destroy you. But here’s the good part: when you finally take just one small step towards fulfilling that dream, which you eventually will, it makes all of the rejection letters, and sleepless nights, and financial stress, and waiting tables, and writing about things you hate seem just… not important.

So hey, do me a solid and hang on to those dreams in 2010.

You have nothing to lose but your sanity.

My dad stole my Polaroid camera. He took this as I was walking through his backyard. He’s always been a big fan of my dreams.

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Kenny Chronicles: Don’t Cry Or My Fake Tan Will Run

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[For those of you who don’t know who my metrosexual best friend Kenny is, please read this post. Then do yourself a favor and get a clue.]

Most of you may have noticed I’ve been on a bit of a happiness protest this year. Well, hopefully this helps to explain things a bit. I was going to title this post: News Worst Than AIDS. Then I thought that was a bit too dramatic, even for the Kenny Chronicles. Regardless, please keep reading and stop judging me.

[rolling up to the Wendy’s drive thru, sometime last May]

Kenny: Um…. yea. Can I get a double bacon cheeseburger, and can I try a, um, frosty twisted coffee toffee.  I mean, an uh, coffee frosty twisted mocha thing.

Me: No, no. There’s nothing mocha about it. It’s A COFFEE TOFFEE TWISTED FROSTY.

Kenny: Ugh. Whatever. Can I get one of those frosted coffee drinks? [turns to me] Whaddaya want?

Me: Ok. This is very important. I want a Jr. bacon cheeseburger, plain, with lettuce only. You have to say it like that or they will put condiments on there, and mayo makes me throw up.

Kenny: Can I get a Jr. bacon cheeseburger with just lettuce, please?

Me: Tell them plain! You have to tell them plain or they’ll put the mayo. I CANT eat mayo.

Kenny: Oh chill. They know what I mean.

Me: Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, I know how it has to be done.

Kenny: [hands me the bag of food]

Me: Ok, just let me check it real fast.

Kenny: Um, no.

Me: What do you mean no?

Kenny: We’re not those people.

Me: Those people, who?

Kenny: Those people who hold up the line cus they are double checking the food. It’ll be fine.

Me: [as we’re exiting the parking lot] Hmmm. Interesting. MAYO!  ….Turn the car around.

Kenny: Seriously, there’s mayo on there?

Me: Seriously, when will you EVER listen to me? [hands him the sandwich]

Kenny: Can’t you just scrape it off?

Me: No, I can’t SCRAPE IT OFF. The taste infiltrates everything. I hope you know that you are going back in there to get me a new one.

Kenny: [stuffs a handful of fries into his mouth] But I’ve already started eating!

Unfortunately, this is one of the last memories I have of Kenny and I before he left me for some younger, more attractive and aquatic state. California that is.  Oh wait, you didn’t know that?

It was a month before this very incident that he broke the bad news to me. I remember it as clearly as that day I walked out of the bathroom in third grade with toilet paper tucked into my tights. Kenny was sitting next to me on my couch he mentioned something to this effect [I can’t remember the details as I went into a three-month coma afterwards]:

Kenny: So, I think I’m moving to San Diego.

Me: [bursting out in laughter] I’m sorry, what?

Kenny: No really, I have some opportunities out there.

Me: Is this sorta like that time you were gonna “move” to Virginia with whatsherface?

Kenny: No.

Me: Well, what the HEAL does San Diego have that our town doesn’t?

Kenny: Warm weather. New people. The Ocean.

Me: Oh, so you’re gonna move to one of the most expensive cities in California, in the middle of a recession, with no family or friends to support you, and you’re gonna leave me here with all these losers? Don’t do it. Remember the sandwich? You should really start listening to me.

[silence…]

Me: Get out of my house.

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And before I knew it, I found myself rolling up an ungodly amount of metro ties and placing them into Kenny’s suitcase. As I was laying on his bed, covered in hair from his insanely obese and elderly cat Beretta, I found myself speechless. How on earth would I stand this godforsaken town without Kenny around? He made everything bearable. We looked through old pictures, talked about all of our crazy times, and all sorts of sentimental stuff that I’m not usually comfortable with.

The next morning, he was off to the friggen Southwest. Since I’m not the best at goodbyes, confrontations, or sports, I opted to leave a few hours before departure. As we hugged goodbye, our conversation pretty much summed up everything:

Kenny: Sorry this is the way you have to remember me [points to his hair] I look terrible.

Me: Um, please, [pointing to my face] do you see these bags under my eyes?

Kenny: Ugh. I’m gonna miss you like crazy.

Me: You have no idea. [hugging, starting to tear up]

Kenny: Now don’t start crying. Then I’ll start crying and you’ll make my fake tan run.

Me:  Well, maybe next time I see you, it’ll actually be real.

 

And that, my friends, was the start of my spiraling depression. Please direct all outbursts and fury over lack of blogs/commenting toward Kenny.You can check out the photo shoot we did before Kenny left me here…

To check out slightly more uplifting installments of the Kenny Chronicles:

How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone

A Metrosexual In A Yankee’s Hat

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

How We Met

A Conversation At Starbucks

A Bad Gordita And Some Classy Water