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After almost 25 years on earth, and probably more than 25 failed New Year's (and mid-year's and by-my-birthday) resolutions, I've come to the conclusion that while I love a good resolution, resolutions, at least in the classic sense, do not love me. I've made small ones, big ones, in-between ones, ones that I call something other than a resolution but are really just a resolution after all. You name it, and I've probably tried it. And then failed miserably.
If I had a dime for every minute I've spent searching for things on Amazon that I don't need, I would probably still spend those dimes on things on Amazon that I don't need.
When I was growing up, I never dreaded the summer ending. I never panicked about going back to school. I was obsessed with the idea of a built-in fresh start.
I always started my year with lists of how I was going to commit to being "better" — a concept that, at ages 12 - 18, was often limited to how other people perceived me. As I got older, the type of things I wanted to change or approve upon, of course, changed, but my desire to find a reason to be better and to begin again never went away. Time passed, I graduated high school, then college — but I never stopped looking for a reason to start over, even as it started to sink in that I was at an age where those built-in jumping off points weren't there anymore. I gradually accepted that I had to make those points for myself. And then, in November 2017, my friend died. And I realized that, when you're an adult, it's not that the starting over milestones don't exist, it's that they're just easier to ignore. T
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
There is nothing like the relaxation that a good candle brings. The soothing, flickering flame. The calming aroma. The $15 you spent on something that will quite literally burn out and die in front of your eyes. Alternatively, there is also nothing like the overwhelming sense of anxiety that comes over your body when you leave the house and promptly are convinced you forgot to blow said candle out.
It's 4 p.m. on a Sunday. You've happily wasted the morning, flipping through Fixer Upper re-runs, wondering if you too could someday live in a farm in Waco, Texas (you decide yes, but are still unsure if you could care for goats — you will return to this thought later). You were going to work out, but the only clean workout clothes are those yoga pants you really hate, so you decide to put it off until tomorrow. And suddenly it hits you, a natural instinct so powerful that you're completely sure you need to turn off the TV and get in your car immediately, Chip & JoJo be damned. You know, deep in your soul, one thing and one thing only: You have to go to Target.
I love Amazon because it encompasses many of my tiny loves into one giant love. There's just something incredibly satisfying about being able to buy granola bars and every season of Game of Thrones on DVD all at once. And when I saw an article about these velvet chairs on Amazon that I apparently just "had to have," I, of course, stood absolutely no chance in resisting.
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