Most of my followers know I read a lot of crime books, thrillers, and mysteries. But this wasn't always the case, actually. A few years ago I realized that forcing myself to like books that were a certain kind of genre — full of a certain level of writing, or a specific type of elevated language — was a waste of my time. Reading is one of the greatest, most simple pleasures in life. It can lift you, pull you, drag you out of whatever anxiety, pain, worry you're going through at the moment. Few things can do that in this world so instantly. No matter what you like to read, the act of reading itself, and the escape it offers is flat-out joyful. When you let go of any expectation of what you're supposed to be reading, it's even better.

I used to live alone in a studio apartment. And not a big, sprawling warehouse type studio from movies, where I'm just always roaming around in a giant button-down shirt and painting large canvases for no reason. No. If I had to describe it, it was like a one bedroom apartment had been Honey, I Shrunk The Kids-style zapped into a very miniature version of itself. And then zapped again. It was probably 300 square feet. But for me, it worked.

Although I'm 24 and have lived in New York for over two years now, I still have a Florida Driver's License with a photo from 2009. I was 16 then, and my hobbies included things like writing poetry at Starbucks while waiting for my mom to come pick me up and complaining that I would die alone. I had side-swept bangs, didn't know how to use makeup, and was 6 feet tall — as I have been since I was about 14. I didn't like being tall. I hated it.

When I was a child, I very specifically wanted to be one of two things when I grew up: a country music singer or female NFL referee. As time passed, a few key things happened that shifted my interests. With time and the wisdom that only years 8 through 12 of your life can bring, I realized that I couldn't sing, wasn't southern, and, like absolutely zero other children I knew, I lost my fascination with officiating football games. Once my totally unrealistic dreams were dismissed, I settled on a more traditional, yet equally unrealistic career goal: I wanted to work in fashion and beauty. This dream was paired with the Devil Wears Prada-inspired notion that, of course, that job would n

One of my biggest pet peeves is when people say New York is magical. Granted, I would probably be lying if I said that I myself haven't described the city this way at some point, in some Instagram caption. Also, I am generally annoyed by most things. But keeping that in mind, let's get back to my point: New York is not a magical, fairy tale city. It is a lot of things, but magic is not one of them.