-sh anything I start. Except for my Honeycup Uniquely Sharp Stone Ground Spicy Mustard (it changes lives. And eggs.) and this Chocolove Orange Peel Dark Chocolate bar. Okay, and like seven fresh ginger beer crafted cocktails with bottom shelf bourbon because somehow, Jim Beam, Bulleit and Makers all taste the same to me, so bring out whatever is lingering.
But the books? There are five of them sitting on my shelf. Some with an ear mark fold 27 pages in, others merely flipped through without making a dent. FYI, these run the gamut from Lena Dunham’s sexually deprived-ish memoir to Girl Boss, to A Visit from the Goon Squad (recommended by one of my favorite living people, a creative writing professor by the name of Deborah Blum, whose basically god).
The folder of pictures to develop? Oh, it’s on my desktop. Five months later, my walls are still bare, screaming for human contact and images of loved ones to be taped up and tacked in. Nothing yet. Just a file, “TO DEVELOP.” The yelling caps haven’t helped. If my computer god forbid ever crashes, there goes my entire life, as well as the detailed roster of all meals I’ve inhaled thus far (aka far too many, oops).
The 30-day squat challenge I took on my senior year of school? Adamant and persistent in the beginning. Nobody was standing in the way of this natural booty booster. Twenty days in, I was like na, whatever. Today was day #2, my ass still feels the same, I shall report back in June (now wondering if I have any friends with Hamptons houses? Will scout.)
The 10 pound weight loss goal? That’s been on the New Years resolution list circa 1999. Oui, I was always a hefty child (shout out to my mom for popping out all 9.5 pounds of me). The goal wasn’t completely untouched. There have been several attempts. Me and Mariah Carey. The yo-yo’ers of society. I know how to do it; I’ve done it before. But why do I always stop following through? IDK maybe because chocolate is my middle name and carbs are my inner spirit. Something like that. Mainly chocolate though.
The conclusion? I mean I’m not dead yet…I am doing this. It’s April 7th and I’m about to be a woman on a mission. I don’t even think a tattooed, man-bun’d, mason-jar-drinking mixologist who makes his own almond milk and chia seed pudding will get in my way. I think I just sketched out my dream human specimen of a companion. That’s fine. But really, if you’re also concocting some macha dish, please find me immediately (as in yesterday).
I’m all about the no plan is the best plan type of planner. Which means I don’t plan. That’s the way I like it, and that’s what keeps an element of surprise, excitement and blinding light at the end of the rat-infested, glum, graffiti’d tunnel. While I’m not mapping anything out, I have a blurred rough draft in mind.
And let me just tell you that I have NEVER turned down a bag of Popcorners on JetBlue. Refer to last post for further understanding. I feel like I just climbed Kilimanjaro while swigging an exotic fruit Sancerre sangria while wrapping every single word of 21 questions (I think 50 Cent was my father, there is no other sound conclusion for the resemblance). That beastly for turning that little shiny bag of kettle down on last night’s flight, yes.
I think that’s enough. Not that it particularly matters, since the only one who truly delves into my writing and explores my thoughts is my amazing grandma. But just in case, I thought I’d let the weird world of the web know.
Shit’s about to go down. I WILL finish one of my barely finagled books this month, run a 10k this year, take a cocktail class, lose 10 pounds, take an epic vacation, work on enhancing my writing, write a few handwritten letters, and restart my squat challenge. 30 days of ass to the floor, knee bending, butt-lifting routine started yesterday.
I would say “Bye Felicia” but I still don’t know where that came from. So just bye, brb, and if anyone wants to join any of the indicated expeditions, all are welcome to ride.