should be kept to myself

SOS From Quarantine Week 9 [?]

What is the saying? Something loves company? I don’t know anymore, but I thought it was going to be a cool introduction to this.

How the hell are you? Dare I ask, how is your quarantine?

Speaking of — I have some synonyms for that word that I feel like sharing: safe spacing, isolation, iso, hell, social distancing, social spacing, space, and more but I’m pulling an all nighter I think and it’s not coming to me.

What a weird time to be writing this. I mean. . . we’re living in [trigger warning] quarantine. Who would have thought? Not I.

I just wanted to get on this old horse and see if it still rides. I will figure out future posting soon [not actually. . .] and will keep you posted.

For now, hope you’re staying safe and washing your damn hands.


should be kept to myself

Leo Bangs

As a product of boredom and lack of inspiration, I now have bangs.

Recently, I’ve been having a pity party for myself due to false hope in my own expectations. Last summer, if you didn’t get the memo, was one of the best summers of my life because it was spent in the south of France, where I frolicked and truly thought I was the queen of Europe. This summer is like the evil step sister to that one. Let me explain:

My first year of college I had a plan for myself, which included many fantasies of becoming famous, studying abroad, interning for a magazine or some sort of publication, dying my hair pink, and definitely knowing wtf I’m doing with my life. Pretty much Absolutely none of those things happened (except for my previously mentioned summer abroad), and that leads me to the self-inflicted disappointment I face today.

According to my college to-do list, this summer was supposed to be the one where I intern for a cool publication, take pride in a trusty by-line and possibly land a career in journalism. THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN, and we’re bitter. The most dismal part of this season has been its mundanity. So what did I do? I put curtains on my forehead and called them bangs.


I’m not sure if it was a reaction to my seasonal depression or just my unwillingness to actually get my life in order, but I substituted my ambitious goals for a temporary identity crisis.

It’s not that I dislike my bangs. In fact, I really really enjoy them. I think they’ve realigned my face nicely and fixed the uneven cowlicks that sprout from my hairline. The bangs aren’t exactly the problem. It’s more-so what they represent. It’s like I tried to put duct tape on my annual creative drought, if we’re going to get metaphorical. The bangs are a testament to the craving of any modern change in my life. I am stuck in a routine, and I thought fringe would fix it.

I don’t have answers or a solution to this. If anything, I feel quite indifferent to the problem. To be more confusing, I’m not even sure if it is a problem if not just a feeling of being inadequate or unbalanced. I need reassurance that I still have control and am on the right path, but don’t we all?

That’s all I have to offer you all for tonight. Maybe next time, I’ll have pink hair.



should be kept to myself

note to self!

Good evening y’all!

Maybe it’s because my AC unit is quite possibly killed and the heat of my bedroom is influencing my sleep deprivation, or because I watched Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants in its dual parts and got a burst of nostalgia. Nonetheless, I felt a strange urge to post on here again. If I’m being honest, I really like my nail polish color right now and seeing my fingers type is maybe the most narcissistic compliment I’ve allowed myself in a while. But my fingers look cute!

Currently she (she being me who likes to talk in third person occasionally. It is my personality complex. don’t ask me about it.) is suffering from a severe canker sore on her bottom lip. It’s kind of trending right now, but more importantly! it’s flared. She (this time she being my angry canker sore) is raging. Why do people do that? Dumb down things like an inflamed canker sore into baby language by calling it an angry ____. The other day I was at my podiatrist, because I am a woman who has a podiatrist — foot and ankle doctor for everyone uneducated in that realm– and he was discussing a procedure that (SPOILER ALERT) I had on my toe. I’ll spare you the details of why I’ve been limping for three months and cut to the chase. He told me my toe was going to be angry, which in medical terms was simply insulting. I’m 20 years old and in most countries very legal to consume alcoholic beverages! I think can handle a doctor telling me that my toe is going to react or become inflamed from the mysterious procedure (that I’m not going to tell you about because you’re currently on a need-to-know-basis) without him having to speak to me like I’m a child and use language like “angry toe!”

Disclaimer: I wore headphones the entire procedure and watched TikTok videos because quite frankly I’m not the mature woman that most people assume me to be! Stop with your assumptions, people!

To dish out some real gossip about her (this time her = me. we’re back to me!), I’ve been in a weird funk. It’s as if I’m in the part of my autobiographical movie when the heroine puts down her fork and starts running has started! Leaving you on a cliff-hanger because I’m not going to continue with my critique of the movie.

Truly, I have no idea what I’m writing about and now I’m very convinced that my ceiling fan is just swinging around all the hot air in the room. Do I crack a window? We’re only on the brink of spring, last week I was still wearing sweaters and now I’m sweating in my microwave of a room. What do you think is cooking?

I’ll leave it at that. Sorry for the spontaneity. Still working on my vocabulary.