Yesterday, my neighbor stopped me as I was walking up to my apartment. I was kinda sweaty and out of breath because I walked to the grocery store and forgot that it’s a good 2 mile round trip and I did not dress appropriately for a pilgrimage. Effortlessly fabulous successful neighbor lady decided that this was prime time to drop the nuclear bomb of all questions…
"So, like, what do you do"
But the emphasis was all on the second “do” in this weird accusatory tone. Like maybe I don’t “do” much of anything.
I don’t know how to answer this question in the best of circumstances. I definitely don’t know how to answer it when the majority of my focus is on preventing a $4 bottle of Pinot Grigio from hitting the pavement. I looked at her and made some sort of non-committal noise that would have been accompanied by a non-committal hand gesture had I not been choke holding a soggy paper bag.
"Do you blog?"
And I said, without hesitation, “oh, yeah! Yeah, I do!”
Really enthusiastically. Like it was true and that is absolutely what I did. And then I pranced up the steps to my place like the proud little blogger that could.
So, here we are again.
Erin Maloney- Faux Blogger and Professional Liar
Real airports aren’t as beautiful and heartwarming as they look in Love, Actually. Everyone is coughing here for some reason or staring dejectedly at their screaming child. Where is the magic?? Where is Alan Rickman??
I spent most of today in an anxious pre-flight paralysis where all I could do was think about how much shit I had left to do before I hit play on another episode of American Horror Story. Eventually I decided that I should definitely get moving…at which point my brain apparently ceased to function and I drove myself to the mall to run some errands.
It’s the Sunday before Christmas. Literally all I needed was a new pair of sunglasses and cat litter. And my dumb ass goes to the mall ‘cause “oh maybe I’ll get some boots too”.
Wrong. What I got was a parking lot armageddon. If you ever want to know what real helplessness feels like just go ahead and drive into a mall parking garage three days before Christmas. Once I realized I was screwed, I was in too deep.
That’s what she said.
Anyways, I got stuck in mall hell for about three hours for absolutely no reason. Which left me about an hour to accomplish everything that I needed to do at the house before I left for the Alan Rickman-less airport.
But, it’s all okay because I’m crazy person early for my flight, there’s a man feeding fries to his French bulldog across from me, I’ll be home for Christmas and New Years and I’m gonna make all sorts of resolutions and shit.
Take that, mallport.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson (via manchannel)
— Rumi (via 5000-miles)