So it's this funny thing. I was doing some spring cleaning on account of the fact that I am marrying and moving in with the man of my dreams and I came across my journals. Maybe 5 or 7 of them, written between the ages of 18-24, and I remembered. I used to LOVE writing. Enough to fill a billion journals, enough to write flouncy little blog posts like 2-3 times a week. It helped me clear my head and make sense of my life and choose which stories I wanted to be big and which ones I wanted to be small even though all I did was interact with a stranger at the grocery store.
But I also live in Utah, and have maybe 5 friends here, and I feel like I lost a part of myself by not writing to process it all. Not that I think I have this great talent, but it feels oddly vindicating to put my schtuffs into the world. There's this satisfaction that the world doesn't spit it back out like a dollar bill that's too crumpled. (Sidenote: having 5 friends in Utah is probably 75% by choice).
But, another also - if I'm going to do this, I'm gonna all the way do this. I'm going to tell people about the blog and talk about Angel and my spirituality and post a billion selfies and pretend everyone thinks I'm cool. Because maybe that's what I have in my soul. And I know it's not 2008 and no one cares about blogs anymore and selfies are the currency of the Kardashian family, but you know what? Team Khloe forever. (Slash, idk, I've never watched more than 4 minutes of that show at once, but I am the Khloe of my family).
But also (and I'm pretty sure this is my last also), I found my retainer when I was spring cleaning, and it had been missing since I moved to Utah , but it still kinda fit and so I'm wearing it all the time so that I lose the gap between my two front teeth before the wedding and my mouth hurts pretty bad.
But that's kind of what you expected all along, right?