I believe I was exiting the Sonic drive thru, or entering it, or approaching it, or imagining it, or sitting idly pre or post order... OKAY, so I obviously don't know exactly which part of the purchase I was in, but I was somewhere between leaving home in a car and arriving back home in... the same car. #corndogs #listeria #shutup
None of this matters.
I was in some kind of Sonic process, (can we please take a minute to appreciate how cool 'Sonic process' sounds?), when I told my husband that I feel savage. This is my one word recap of the first trimester of pregnancy. Anyway, I believe the conversation went a little something like this:
What I mean by this is that I'm a monster, and I feel utterly and completely out of control.
"But Lauren! Pregnancy is a #blessing and just, omg it's going to be so fine, and no, none of the terrible things you read will happen to you... except some of them! Only some of them! Look at the bright side, at the end of this you get a baby THAT YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO TAKE CARE OF, BUT I'M AN EXPEEEERRRRTTT ASK ME ALL THE QUESTIONS!!@!!@!!$!!" (Obviously this person's voice becomes deeper and deeper until the end of the sentence, at which point we all discover that it is none other than Satan).
Yea, other moms, you are Satan now. Congrats. No exceptions, all of you: Satan.
Onward, there are bullet points needed after all.
Overall, I give the first trimester a 2/10. Hands down, this is one of the most unresearched and questionable decisions I have ever made. I don't regret it, I know the end result is this whole family thing that I want. It seems to be getting better, but I will require heavy convincing and/or bribery to go through the last 3 months again. Fuck that shit.
First and foremost, it is important for you to know that I hate shopping.
I don't get a sweet buyer's high from copping a sick deal. I don't enjoy sifting through a rack only to find that the one shirt that looks like the shape of my torso (oblong rectangle) is completely sold out in my size. I don't like searching for my size and finding that JUST KIDDING, this brand does things differently and now I'm a totally different size. I don't respect how 99% of women's pants are sized (what the fuck does 'long' mean?! We picked the stupid imperial system for some reason, why can't we use it to sell pants?! Last I checked I measured shit in inches, not in simple adjectives. 'Hey. How long is that broom? 'Oh, this broom? This broom is regular. Just a regular broom, regular length.') I don't want to take my clothes off in a tiny room and pretend that my pasty white skin looks good in fluorescent lighting.
I don't like shopping. I don't like shopping. I hate shopping.
Enter Stitch Fix. (THAT is a referral link, because I'm smart).
Stich Fix is this thing of when you pay some magical internet stylist $20 to send you some crap that matches your style. 'But Lauren, how do? How do they know my style Lauren, how?!' Relax, let me 'splain the whole process.
Overall, I give Stitch Fix a 9/10. I ended up with a really well fitting pair of black skinny jeans and some shirts I definitely wouldn't have picked out for myself, but that I'm comfortable wearing. The chick who styled me absolutely read my comments and catered the crap to fit my needs. For me, this service is well worth the money, especially considering the alternative: wasting my time going shopping and coming back empty handed, feeling crappy about myself, my style, and all the shapes that I'm not.
Not like nipples, you're thinking of inverted.
Introversion. Maybe you've heard of it? Perhaps you haven't. (That's okay, why would you want to know anything about like... 50% of people anyway?) I'm not going to explain it to you, because there are 700 articles about it on every website lately and that's what Google is for anyway.
Regardless, I've been introverted since I can remember. Here I will provide some examples from my childhood experiences to give you proof, because no one who reads this has any reason to believe me.
Hopefully, if you know me, this doesn't come as a surprise. I'm predominately quiet, I observe more than I participate, and I quite literally NEVER want to talk to you at the soda machine, in the elevator, or at any time in my existence without a specified purpose. Small talk matters not.
I think I've given introversion a fair run, and I think it's time to give it a review. Let's do this thing.
So, I did it. I read a book... Okay I lied, I read HALF of a book.
FUCK, fine! I read 86 pages of a book. Stickler, I read ~85.1 pages. I wasn't ready for the next section, I'm still not ready for the next section.
I don't want to finish this book.
This book was supposed to teach me 'the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing,' but I'm finding that it's just telling me a really strange story about a girl who terrorizes her family with unhealthy organization habits that has somehow avoided an OCD diagnosis despite some very obvious warning signs.
Here are my notes thus far:
The thought of someone gasping in disbelief upon seeing someone's sock drawer made me want to light this book on fire. Surely there are some great tips somewhere in this book on simplicity and creating/maintaining a tidy lifestyle, but if I have to subject myself to written criticism of a goddamn sock drawer to get to that information, well, I guess I'll just continue living in my own filth for awhile longer.
Overall, I'd give this book a 3/10. On the joy sparking spectrum, that is very low, so I'll be taking this book's advice, groping it, telling it thanks for nothing, and throwing it the fuck away.