Three Hundred Sixteen.


You know what?

Let’s not pretend.

It can be pretty intimidating because it can sometimes feel really pretentious. Like, people who do yoga regularly are sometimes very serious about yoga, so it can be super scary to go in as a beginner, anticipating dirty looks and/or judgement.

Lucille Judge

But I’ve always been curious about it. Especially since becoming a fitness instructor. I do so much high impact cardio, and then a lot of strength training, and I know I could use more stretch in my life.

So in July, I decided to give it a go. It was pure chance, really. I had a coffee meeting downtown, and when I checked my gym schedule online, it just so happened that a friend of mine was teaching yoga right after my coffee date at a location just a few blocks away.

Meant to be, I thought. Just do it.

So I did.

I was the only first-timer. Great. But I tried to shrug and laugh it off.

“I have no idea what I’m doing!” I joked. “It’s gonna be highly entertaining!”

In the meantime, I just wanted to disappear.

Disappearing Homer

You know what? Physically, I rocked it.

I’m strong, I’m in good shape, and I’m flexible. Yes, the hamstring stretches made me want to die because I work my legs so hard on a daily basis doing Zumba. But I didn’t really struggle with any of the strength or balance aspects of the class.

It was the other side of yoga that got me.

The quiet side.

My friend, the instructor, was amazing. She’s an incredibly centred and peaceful presence. And in theory, I totally understood everything she was saying.

But every time we had to just be still on our mat and breathe, my body tensed up.

I could hear the instructor’s words, telling me to focus and clear my mind. And I was trying. I was trying so hard that it was making me sweat. I’d close my eyes and the noise in my head would feel deafening. The thoughts would rush around in there so quickly it was like they were colliding and causing me physical pain. I twitched and tightened, worrying about how I couldn’t just relax, wondering if anyone was watching me and thinking, My God, what the fuck is wrong with her?!

Logically, I knew:

Calm DownBut my instant reaction was:

No sense

Despite leaving feeling like a total failure, something happened when I got home. I got into the shower, and all of a sudden, I had an overwhelming rush of creative ideas. I wrote the endings to stories I’ve had in my mind for ages. I had a perfect idea for a short film. I envisioned a hilarious moment in the TV show I am working on writing.

I got out of the shower and grabbed my iPhone and rambled a ton of shit into my voice memos.

I guess I managed to relax a little. Like, maybe even halfway. And look where it got me.

Oh shit.

So yoga taught me:

(A) That I am terrible at relaxing and clearing my mind. (I’ve kind of been through this already…)

(B) That I really, seriously need to work on doing just that.


P.S. One of the few accurate things the tarot card reader said about me yesterday was that I never give myself a break. “When you are working on a project, you put everything into it. You’re incredibly focused. And you have multiple projects at once. I feel like…I feel like you’ve never been on a real vacation. And I think you need to give yourself that. Soon.”


I just need to find the time and money.


Three Hundred Fifteen.

So, I got my tarot cards read today.



It’s something I’ve always been curious about, and I figured hey, I’m feeling kind of lost and have felt like my life has been at a crossroads for like, over a year now, so I might as well just give it a go.

It was weird.

Here’s the thing: I consider myself a very intuitive person. On top of that, I’m a writer, so observing people is like, my favourite thing to do. As a result, I feel like I can read people very well, and I’m extra sensitive to how people speak, the subtext of what they say, and how they interact with me.

This woman was nervous around me. Maybe I’m hard to read – fair enough, I’ve been told that before. She seemed to be struggling very hard with figuring out who I am and what I do, and the “imagery” she kept calling upon had little to nothing to do with me.

She told me I should be a food blogger or a sculptor, and that I would have many opportunities for art openings in New York.

SIDENOTE: She told me I’d travel to New York with my red-headed sister, so Laura, if you’re reading this, pack your bags.

Then she told me I should research how to apply to be a food reviewer for blogs and travel the world doing that.

SIDENOTE: Vegan, gluten-free food blogger. I’d be lynched a week into my new career.

She then told me I should consider getting my Master’s degree (I have one), and that it should be in photography.

SIDENOTE: You know what? I fucking love photography. I wish I did more of it. I am always saying that. And I’m a huge camera nerd. So there’s that.

Between asking me questions and making statements about me that I had to constantly reply, “no” to, she cleared her throat, giggled anxiously, and said things like, “Oh, yeah, that felt wrong,” or, “Oh gosh, that was totally off – let’s scrap that.”

To be honest, everything else she said about me was very…general. That I need to focus on loving myself (I know, I really do), and that I should write down three qualities I love about myself every day for 21 days straight (that’s cool, I actually should, and I actually am going to be blogging about something similar very soon). She told me that I should focus on reconnecting with my spirituality (fair enough), and then mentioned that maybe I could manage a number of yoga studios (KILL ME NOW).

SIDENOTE: No offense, yoga lovers. I tried yoga and it was a huge learning experience for me.

SIDENOTE TO THE SIDENOTE: Oh my fucking god! I thought I had blogged about yoga! I was totally gonna link to it, and it DOESN’T EXIST! And here I thought I was running out of ideas. I’LL NEVER RUN OUT OF IDEAS.

(Haha, watch the universe screw me on like, day 347.)

Guys, I’m not a skeptic. I’ve always been intrigued by tarot and psychics and all that stuff. I totally believe it’s possible. I was totally that 14-year-old with a deck of tarot cards and a book trying to tell my own fortune. (I still have them, too. I know exactly where they are.) Plus, I fucking love Long Island Medium.


But lesson learned: Today was not my day for a tarot reading.


I should become a tarot card reader.


P.S. If you live where I live and you have been to an amazing tarot card reader and/or psychic, TELL ME NOW. I’m so curious it hurts.

P.P.S. Hilariously, the tarot card reader pulled a bunch of cards pertaining to my last relationship, and almost every single thing – like 94% of what she said about him – was (and/or felt) eerily, eerily accurate. So, if you’re reading this and you want to hear about it, send me a smoke signal and when I’m ready, I’ll tell you all about it.

P.P.P.S. Now the yoga post exists.

Three Hundred Six.

Yesterday I got to spend the day in a beautiful location watching two of my favourite people get married.

Holy cow, guys, it was perfect. I feel so lucky to have been there, and so lucky to know the happy couple (Hi, Mandelle and Adam! I love you guys!).

It happened in a small town just outside of Calgary – a quaint, storybook country setting.


My friend Caitlin and I got dolled up and had basically the best time ever.

Cait and Ang

We laughed, cried, ate, and danced our asses off. I don’t think I have ever had that much fun dancing at a wedding. My friend Caitlin’s a damn good date. I highly recommend her presence.

I’m not going to go into great detail on the wedding today, though I might talk about it more another time. For now, I’m just setting the scene for a hilarious moment.

When I say we were dancing our asses off, I totally mean it. We danced like crazy people – air punching, shimmying, jumping, shaking our butts, scream-singing along to the Spice Girls and scream-rapping along to Run DMC (shout out to Keith, our friend and DJ, for taking my song request). When “It’s Like That” came on, our shoes came off and we really went for it.

Right at the end of the night, a guy we had met throughout the wedding day and night hopped onto the dance floor to dance with us. We were all having a great time when he dropped into a dramatic dance move, really low to the ground.

Cue the sound of a record scratch and the music going dead silent. (But only in our minds, because in real life the music kept playing.)

His face flashed from “having a great time” to “oh my fucking god” faster than any of us could even process.

“I ripped my pants!” he shouted over the music.

“Ha ha!” I laughed. I thought he was joking.

“I ripped my pants!” he said again, scurrying off the dance floor.

“Oh my god!” Caitlin and I said to one another, feeling both extreme sympathy and extremely amused.

It soon became clear that he wasn’t – ahem – properly attired to continue dancing despite the rip. If you know what I mean.


A night in Glasgow. A few of my classmates and I had been out to see what was the worst production of Othello I have ever seen in my life. It was so bad, in fact, that we ran away at intermission. If you know me at all, you know that a production/movie/anything has to be horrendous for me to leave before it’s over, because if I can avoid being disrespectful of the work being presented to me, I will. I’ve been a producer. I’ve been a director. I’ve been an actor. I teach Zumba classes all week. I know what it feels like to watch people walk out of your work.

But it was that bad.

Now, all of my classmates are like me, so we all felt guilty for leaving, but we were desperate. So naturally, we didn’t leave the theatre calmly. Well, we left the auditorium calmly – but then we ran. Why did we run? I don’t know. I still run to the parkade every time I leave work early, even when my boss tells me to leave work early. I guess my instincts tell me I may be caught and chastised or something.

Regardless, we hurried.

I was speed walking down a dark, narrow street next to my classmate Carissa when we all heard an “OooooOOP!” and our friend Janice disappeared from our peripheral vision.

There was a thud.

Our first instinct, of course, was to say, “Oh my god, are you okay?”

The only response we got was laughter, which started small and built up to straight up maniacal. Janice was beside herself; she could not stop.

“Guys! Guys!” she tried to talk between gasps for air, “It’s a banana! It’s a BANANA!”

We looked around, trying to determine what the hell she was talking about.

And there it was.


Janice had slipped on a banana peel.

Need I say more?

Lesson learned: Sometimes those quintessential “movie moments” happen in real life. And boy, are they ever entertaining.


P.S. Totally just shared the link to this post on Facebook only to have my friend Janice tell me that it was Carissa who slipped, not her! I guess I remembered it backwards because I was LAUGHING FOREVER.

Three Hundred Five.

Have you guys ever heard of Irn Bru?


It’s Scotland’s “other national drink” (after whiskey). It actually outsells Coke in Scotland, which is a pretty crazy accomplishment. If I remember correctly, that hasn’t happened anywhere else. But I might have made that up. Or a very proud Scot told me so and I took it for the truth. Either way, it’s popular stuff.

I only tried Irn Bru once. I don’t actually know what it’s supposed to taste like. It’s not orange, despite its appearance. It’s almost like North American cream soda, except way, way sweeter. Apparently, it may have a slightly ginger-y after taste? I think it burned my taste buds off. But that’s honestly not saying much; I’ve never been a fan of soda.

Anyway, I will never forget this one day in Glasgow. I was crossing a bridge in Kelvingrove Park on my way to university and I happened to pass by a young mother with a number of children. That in itself wasn’t surprising, but her youngest child was. The little girl, who could not have been older than 6-8 months, was sitting in a stroller, sucking on a baby bottle…that was filled with Irn Bru.

How can I be sure? It’s neon orange, y’all. It looks like toxic waste.

I have to admit, my first reaction was to think, “Only in Glasgow,” and tell like, everyone I saw that day about how horrified I was.

But lately, like in the last few months, I have seen so many parents buying their kids coffee that I don’t even know what to think. Just a couple days ago, when I was “working” at a Starbucks, I saw a dad buying his 6-7 year old son an iced coffee and I was kind of floored.

I know what you’re thinking. Starbucks has a lot of non caffeinated beverages that could be kid-friendly. Yeah, that’s absolutely true. But this kid was drinking one of these:


Straight up iced coffee.

I’ve heard lots of parents say their kids genuinely love the taste of black coffee. I just hope that when they comply to their kids’ requests, they’re at least ordering decaf. Because (A) kids don’t need an early start to caffeine addiction, and (B) who wants to parent a caffeinated child?!

Lesson learned: I may be one of “those” parents. You know the ones. They don’t let their kids eat sugary cereal or processed foods.

Combine this post with this article from Jezebel and once again, I’m leaning toward “NO” on the “Are you going to have children?” scale.


Two Hundred Ninety Eight.

Back to 2006 again, because I was out with some old friends last night and they reminded me of a hilarious story.

The first stop on my big UK and Ireland adventure in 2006 was London, where I stayed with my friends Cole and Kandice, who were living there at the time. It was a pretty quick visit – about four days or so – but it sure was eventful.

At the same time that I was visiting, so were Kandice’s parents, as well as two of her friends, let’s just call them Mandy and Shauna. Of all the coincidences in the world, I went to elementary school with Mandy, so on their first day in London, it seemed promising that we would maybe get along.

Did that sound ominous?

We took a day trip to Bath and Stonehenge, which went pretty well. The following day, I think Cole and Kandice both had to work or something, because I had the majority of the day on my own for sightseeing. Since I knew going in that my time in London was extremely tight, I figured I’d do a hop-on, hop-off bus tour to see as much of the city as possible.

“Oh, we’ll come with you!” Mandy and Shauna exclaimed.

Okay, fine.

To be honest, they had gotten on my nerves a bit the day before, but I was up for some company. I was 19 and travelling by myself for the first time ever, after all. I hadn’t found my groove yet.

So I got on the subway that morning and met them at their hotel, and we walked a few blocks to one of the hop-on, hop-off bus stops. We paid for our 48hr. ticket (which wasn’t brutally expensive, but I’d like to emphasize now that it was not cheap) and got onto the bus.

We had barely travelled at all when we came upon an area of London we wanted to explore a bit. I’m not going to pretend I know London well because I don’t. But we were right on the Thames near the London Eye and all that. There was a huge Dali exhibit at one of the galleries and we were all huge Dali fans – YAY! One thing we could agree on! – so we went in.

It was my one small chunk of fun time in that entire day.

After the museum, we wandered across one of London’s many cool bridges to a chunk of the city near St. Paul’s Cathedral because we knew there was another bus stop there. Sure enough, we found a small group of other tourists standing around, so we knew we had found it.

We waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I should mention now that London was having a heat wave. It was 35 degrees and SUNNY. (When does that ever happen in London?!) We were all dying a little bit. I put on sunscreen twice.

After waiting for more than half an hour, everyone at the bus stop was getting fussy. Where the hell was the bus that was supposed to come around every 10 minutes?

We waited some more.

And then some more.

And…then a little longer.

And then we started to hear noise.



What the heck?

It was coming from a couple blocks down. After a few moments, it became clear: a parade of some sort was going down the street. Suddenly, thousands of people came into view, all headed toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. Music was blaring. It was intense.

No wonder our bus was late. It was probably stuck in some insane London traffic behind this damn parade.

“I wonder what the parade is for…” I thought out loud.

“Yeah, who knows?” Shauna replied, “God, it’s hot. I hope the bus comes soon. I really want to see [fill in the blank with some London tourist attraction] today.”

And then our day went haywire.

About halfway through the parade, a giant puppet appeared.

Apparently it’s a famous giant puppet.

I had never heard of it, and to this day, I have no idea what it’s called or anything.

All I know is that Mandy saw it, screamed like a small child, and TOOK OFF RUNNING.

“Mandy! MANDY!” Shauna shouted after her.

But Mandy was gone. She sprinted all the way down the street, turned the corner, and disappeared into the parade.

Shauna turned and looked at me.

“What the hell was that?!”

“You’re asking me? You’re her friend! I have no idea!”

We stared at each other for a few seconds.

“What do we do?” I asked, “Do we wait for her?”

“I have no idea. I can’t believe she just did that.”


“Yeah, shit.”

And of course – OF COURSE – there was the tour bus. Which we had to watch drive away because stupid Mandy was nowhere to be found.

“Maybe we should go look for her,” I offered, “Maybe she’s right around the corner.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Shauna and I made our way to the end of the street, completely unaware of what we were in for. As we turned the corner, I swear all the air left my body for a second.

It was a sea of people. Tens of thousands of people, filling the entire area in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

St-Pauls-CathedralThe giant puppet was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Mandy.

Shauna and I instinctively grabbed hold of one another and turned back onto our quiet street.

“Shit!” she yelled, “I can’t believe this! What the fuck was she thinking?! Now what?!”

“I have no idea. I think we’re just going to have to wait.”

Isn’t it weird how 2006 seems like it just happened, only things were already so different back then?

We all had shitty little Motorola cell phones or whatever. And of course none of us had roaming. I don’t even know if our phones even worked in London.

That was the past, guys. The past.

So we had no choice but to sit back at our stupid hop-on, hop-off tour bus stop in the 35 degree weather and wait.

And boy, did we wait.

We wondered if we would ever see Mandy again. We wondered if she was lost, or kidnapped, or dead. We wondered if she would just go back to the hotel and not tell us.

We wondered a lot of things.

It must have been almost two hours later that Mandy finally showed up. We stared at her in sheer horror while she excitedly told us about how amazing the last two hours of her life had been. Not a drop of shame or apology. Nothing.

“We thought you were gone forever!” Shauna screamed at her.

“Oh, sorry! I just really love that puppet!” Mandy shrugged.

I had nothing to say.

By the time we got onto the hop-on, hop-off tour bus, it was the last one of the evening. We took it to a part of town with lots of restaurants. Thank god, because we were all starving. Then Mandy made us walk around in circles for 45-minutes while she shot down all of our restaurant suggestions until finally we found a place she was happy with. Being vegan, I think all I could eat was lettuce. So I remained starving.

Then Mandy and Shauna insisted that of all of places to go in LONDON ENGLAND, we go to some stupid fucking Canadian-themed bar called THE MOOSE or some shit.

That was the worst.

Also, it was full of Australians.

SIDENOTE: I don’t have anything against Australians. That’s just a funny random fact.

Then Mandy and Shauna basically just abandoned me on the tube to find my way home by myself.

I got lost.

About three times.

When I finally stumbled into Cole and Kandice’s flat at like, 1am, they were both sitting on the couch in their living room like concerned parents waiting for a tardy teenager. They jumped up when I arrived, arms outstretched, worry clouding their expressions.

“My god!” Cole said, “Are you okay? Where have you been?”

I told them about my day.

“I am so sorry those girls hijacked your one day in London.”

Yes. Exactly!

Lesson learned: Travelling is an art, and when you do it with someone, you need to have good travelling chemistry. Don’t travel with strangers. Because you may want to murder them by the end of the day.



P.S. I never got to use the second day of my hop-on, hop-off bus ticket.

Two Hundred Ninety Seven.

Have you ever been somewhere for the first time and gotten an eerie feeling you’ve been there before?

That’s exactly what happened to me when I got to Dublin for the first time in 2006.


I stole that photo from the Internet.

Prior to arriving in Dublin, the only knowledge I had of the city was that I had gleaned from my straight up obsession with Irish literature and film. So while I felt that I had a grip on the culture, the history, and the dialect, I had no idea about the geography. I mean, I had read Dubliners a few times, but I hadn’t gone crazy and mapped it out or anything.

I arrived in Dublin on a bus from Limerick (which had been a trying experience) and then took a cab straight to my B&B. I got myself cleaned up (also a challenge) and ready to explore as quickly as possible. Then I stepped out onto the front steps of my B&B.

And I shit you not, something happened.

Some people believe in ghosts; some people don’t. Some people believe in God; some people don’t. So I don’t expect everyone to believe me when I say this, but as I scanned my surroundings, standing on that front step, it was as though something deep inside of me – somewhere tucked in under my ribcage, somewhere in my gut and my heart and my Self – turned on. Like a switch. It came to life.

I hopped down the steps, turned right, and started walking through Dublin.

I’ve got to see Trinity College again,” I thought to myself as I made a bee-line across the Liffey.

But wait a second. I had never been to Trinity College before.


So how was I standing in front of it just a short while later?

I’m not here to write an explanation, because I don’t have one. I’m not even here to elaborate on this, because I’m not sure what there is to elaborate on. All I can say is this: for my week or so stay in Dublin, I never once looked at a map. And I never once felt lost (unlike some other experiences I’ve had…). Every time I saw a new sight, it felt like a reminder, like seeing an old friend. Like when you visit a place you haven’t been in a long time and you drive around just to see all the spots you used to go.

That was the week of my life during which I learned that I believe in past lives, 100%.

Have you ever gotten that feeling?


Two Hundred Ninety Six.

A little known fact about me (only because you haven’t asked): I love wax museums.


If we were in some random, small, creepy town and there were a wax museum, I’d totally go anyway.

I spent like, half a day at Madame Tussauds in Amsterdam.

So when I was in Dublin with my mom, there was no question: we had to hit up the National Wax Museum.

It was totally great!

Until I saw Oscar Wilde.

I don’t know if I have talked enough about Oscar Wilde on this blog. Basically, you just need to know that I love him. I’ve loved his writing since I was young – like 12 or so. I’ve named one of my dogs after him. My entire Master’s thesis was inspired by his work. I know it sounds a little weird, but I am 100% convinced that in a past life, I lived in Dublin and knew him. (I should blog about that…)

To the two of you who are still reading this (okay, maybe there are five of you, because three of you are going, “Oscar WHO?”), thanks for staying with me.

There I was at the National Wax Museum, staring down a wax sculpture of Oscar Wilde. I wouldn’t even call it an amazing likeness. It was fairly good. I felt like the hair semi-concealing his face was a bit of a cop out. But it was good.

But being next to it freaked me right out.

Oscar 1

“Get in there!” my mom waved me in excitedly, “I’m gonna take a photo!”

I took a step toward the sculpture and stopped.

I turned toward it.

Stared it down.

“What’s wrong?”

“I dunno,” I said, “It’s freaking me out.”

“Get in there! I’ll take a picture. GET IN THERE!”

(My mom gets really excited sometimes.)

I took another step toward the sculpture and sort of leaned in. I don’t feel like I can properly convey just how uncomfortable I was, guys. I felt like I was intensely close to the sculpture. I felt like it was basically breathing on me. My blood pressure was up. I was nervous.

Basically I thought it was going to come to life and kill me or something.

(I have no idea why.)

This is how close I was:

With Oscar

So…not close AT ALL.

As you can also tell, I had a hard time staying still because I just wanted to GET THE HELL AWAY from the sculpture.

I thought that I was developing some irrational fear of Oscar Wilde or wax sculptures. But how could that be possible? I had never felt that way about them before. And when I was at Madame Tussauds a few months later, I took photos with all sorts of wax sculptures (I basically made out with the David Bowie one), so what the hell, right?

Fast forward to the Cultural Centre of Belém in Portugal, where I came across this fucking guy:

I turned the corner and there he was. I stopped dead in my tracks.

Was he real?

I waited a few moments and he didn’t move.

I took another photo:


I coughed. I cleared my throat.


It was an installation.


That’s when all the pieces came together, flashing before my eyes.

Lesson learned: I still love wax sculptures. I just fear any sculpture that is leaning forward just so, making their face not entirely visible. Because I think they will come to life and kill me. (Obviously.)

Can you blame me?


Two Hundred Ninety Two.

2010, Ireland.

My mom had come to visit me while I was living in Glasgow and we took a nice long trip to Ireland with lots of time for tours and exploring. I had been to Ireland before – as you may remember from the day I cried at Burger King or my recap of bathrooms in the country – but I was happy to be back, because Ireland is one of my favourite places on earth and we were going to visit a couple of towns I hadn’t gotten a chance to go to.

One of those towns was Dingle.

Funny name, adorable town.


It was pouring rain while we were there (RAIN?! IN IRELAND?!) so we ran around trying to find something fun to do indoors.

That’s when we found this guy.


“Arrrr,” he said to us (in my mind), “Welcome to Ocean World!”

For a girl who is terrified of the water, I love me a good aquarium. I think part of it is the anticipation of sheer terror. Kind of like when I was five and I was TERRIFIED of Harry and the Hendersons, but I watched it on a loop. I’ve seen that movie so many times, I could reenact it for you right now if you asked.

Okay, not right now, I’m busy blogging.

SIDENOTE: But that one scene where you see an extreme close-up of Harry through the viewfinder thing on the gun? GET OUT OF HERE. Scariest scene. I used to have to watch it through my hands. Scratch that – I probably still would.

The aquarium was awesome. Not huge, but it had a large variety of species. They even had sharks, which was cool.


I could be scared and marvel at them from behind glass. Great.

But then we got to the end of the exhibit and we hit a huge road block.

A shark tunnel.

You know what I’m talking about, right? When aquariums have huge tanks with tunnels built into them that you have to walk through?

They’re one of my biggest fears. Because I’m terrified of the water AND sharks (and fish, really) and standing under glass makes me panic because I feel like (A) I’m in the water, and/or (B) the glass is going to break and we’re all going to die.

“Where’s the exit?” I asked nervously.

“Through there,” my mom replied, “Let’s go.”

“Are you kidding me?! I can’t!”

I scanned my surroundings. There was no other way to get out of the aquarium, save going all the way back to the entrance, which felt like it was miles away at that point.


“Just walk through. It’s no big deal.”


I took one look at my mom, took a deep breath, and I ran.

Shark Tunnel

My mom thought it was super funny that I was running, so she walked behind me and took a photo.

I honestly didn’t breathe until I got to the other side. Then I waited for like, 10 minutes while my mom casually perused EVERY FISH IN THE TUNNEL.

Lesson learned: I have my brave moments.


Maybe our fears only exist until we have to face them.

JUST KIDDING. Still 100% scared shitless of sharks and water.


Two Hundred Ninety One.

Did I not at some point say on this blog that I’m not a big crier?

Yeah, that’s total bullshit.

It’s funny how you don’t really notice things about yourself until you start a 365-day blog and start making statements about yourself and then you realize sometimes they’re just not true.

I sobbed this morning watching this video that my friend shared with me and then I started crying this afternoon because I was tired and feeling generally blue.

Soooo…oops! Sorry about that!


I also tell people I don’t really collect shit, except I totally do.

I did a lot of travelling while I was living in Scotland. It was easier and cheaper because I was so conveniently located. Here is a list of things I collected from almost every place I visited:


Okay, handy. Coasters are very useful, right? So why not have a very random, very large collection of them?


Maybe I will one day. That’s what I keep telling myself. That’s why I have like, 100.

(Jesus, Andrea…)


I just like magnets. One day when I’m not a starving writer who lives with her parents (thanks almost entirely to the very expensive second degree I acquired in Scotland – irony!) I will have a fridge of my own and it will be entirely covered in magnets.

Key Chains

Great, except you can only have so many keys…and I do not have enough keys to justify the number of key chains I own.

Switch them up often, you say?


Playing Cards

Specifically, creepy playing cards. Like this bizarre deck I got in Sweden that has really scary trolls on them.

That one’s fine, I guess. I like playing card games.


NOTE TO SELF: Become magician. Learn card tricks.

Lesson learned: I do collect shit. I’m sorry if I ever tried to tell you otherwise.


P.S. What do you collect? Don’t say nothing. That’s a lie. But don’t tell me if it’s your toe nail clippings or locks of hair from every guy/girl you’ve ever fucked. Because ew.

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