We are blinking cursor addicts dependent upon the right to delete and rewrite ad infinitum.
For the most part, I welcome the adrenaline rush that accompanies each new, unexpected round of discipline.
I laugh, because this is directed at me. Céline knew me too damn well.
Maya Angelou said it best: “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
I’ve been sucked into the list-writing phenomenon. The only problem is I get so many ideas that I don’t have time (and by “don’t have time” I mean “I’m too lazy” ) to write them all.
From my experience, more than heavy petting beneath a blanket is virtually impossible on a regular commercial flight.
It’s virtually impossible for anyone with a vagina to avoid being judged for her personal appearance. Males, on the other hand, tend to skirt such dissection — by way of having penises, presumably.
“Yeah I want to try it with a brunette, shorter than me too but someone that is cute but not cuter than me, maybe even slightly chunky but in a Kate Upton way not like an actual chunky girl way, and funny but not TOO funny, you know?”
Whatever the case, making it to the awesomely comfortable, beautifully boring stage of love is something to celebrate, even if you do so by feeding your pajama clad partner handfuls of microwaved popcorn while binge watching HBO.
Overall I feel in control, if a bit broke.