FINISHED.

Dear Reader,

This post is probably going to be pointless and is being written for no audience whatsoever but I need to get it out there for my own sanity  because I’ve reached the point of the semester where I feel like I’m completely losing it.

I can’t finish anything.

This, of course, is a theme in my life and has been since I can remember. My brother used to relentlessly make fun of me by listing off all of the projects I started and never finished–the books and songs I would write, the neighborhood newspaper I tried to get going, the web series that only ever reached the planning stage, the store that my sister and I would man. I was very young for all of these weird ideas, but the point still stands: I can’t finish shit.

I have written so many blog posts in the past few days. Some are about serious stuff, others are just updates, but all of them are left unfinished.

Of course, that’s the least of my worries at this point because there’s all of my schoolwork that goes unfinished. In fact, it is RARE for me to complete a course without missing an assignment. And even when I have the opportunity to turn the assignment in late, it always remained unfinished. Even when I write or meet with the professor during the editing stages and ask for an extension or whatever, it still never gets done.

I have books on my shelf that are half-read. I have my daily calendar that tells me what historic thing woman have done on this day still on February 6th. I have a loose budget because I can’t bring myself to finish hounding out the details. Even now, right this moment, I am laying on my unmade bed with a blanket over me because I can’t bring myself to put the clean sheets back on the mattress.

And I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I know it’s nothing new but what really irks me is when I go to the doctor’s and they give me the survey to check up on my ADD and I read the question: “Do you often start tasks but quickly lose focus or become easily sidetracked?”

Because it’s kind of a tricky answer. Yes, but I don’t just forget about the task I was doing first (well, not always). I just get sidetracked with another task or another project. I remember when I didn’t write a final for one of my classes freshman year because I was writing my novel. And then this summer I didn’t bother editing my poor draft for the journalism class I was in because I wanted to make a medley of Sia’s songs on the piano.

So I don’t know if this is ADD or just a terrible habit of abandoning projects or just who I am as a person but it’s so annoying and I don’t know how to fix it. Even now I’m reaching the point of just giving up on this entry and moving onto something else, but I’m going to push through.

And I just wonder what it would be like if my life had focus. In the general sense, I guess. Or if I could just keep the focus, but that sounds like ADD, doesn’t it? Except I take my meds–I even just recently upped the medication–and the problem remains.

So I know this is weird to publish. It doesn’t paint me in the best light, but it reveals a lot about who I am. And it certainly doesn’t have a point. No inspiring story or happy ending here. And I’m not even asking for help. I’m not saying, please give me suggestions on how I can change–because I don’t know if I can. I don’t know that there’s anything anyone can tell me to do that isn’t the obvious “get your shit done” answer.

But anyway, I think this is the ending. There. I’ve written one cohesive (eh, debatable) post and I’m going to publish it so that I can prove to myself that I can finish at least one thing to completion. And then maybe that’ll inspire me to finish more. And then maybe I’ll finish the “if we were having coffee” post and the “I don’t know what do in this situation” post and I’ll start blogging again. And then maybe I’ll change.

Or maybe I’ll just forget I’ve even written this by the time I wake up tomorrow.

I guess we’ll just see.

Sincerely,

Sammy

PS. I just titled this and it seems super dramatic if you don’t know the context, but I’m just saying “finished.” Like, one thing down, twenty to go type of thing. Jeez I hope no one takes it as something more serious lol

“Finished.”

Jesus.

PPS. I just typed “unfinished” in Google Images and “unfinished bridges” was the first thing to pop up and it just made me laugh because at least I’m just like a stupid student who’s not getting stuff done but it’s not detrimental to society or anything. Like who the hell is this guy who just didn’t finish this bridge?

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VIBIN

Dear Reader,

Two updates in two days? Pretty odd. And I’m not even writing right now just because my meds are kicking in and I need to word vomit onto a page.

In fact, I haven’t even taken the meds yet today and I kind of feel like a walking zombie because of it. Dead girl walking–out of adderall.

Not really. I have enough to last me the rest of the semester. More than enough. But every once in a while something about it freaks me out and I stop taking it for a bit.

I’ll take it later and I’m sure everything will be fine, I just need a breather.

Well, I kind of need more than that.

All I’ve wanted to do lately is listen to music. Maybe drink a little or get a little high and waste a day away. Maybe get some friends together and all share some good music and just sit in a circle, nodding our heads along to that good shit.

Or maybe do none of that.

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Sometimes I kind of just want to go home and lay in bed with my headphones and listen to all the albums I’ve been playing sporadically in the way they were intended.

I’ve been listening to a lot of rap and hip hop lately.

I mean, how can you let a year like this one go by without at least gaining a tiny appreciation for all the amazing artists in hip hop right now.

2016 has been shitty for a mile-long list of reasons, but it really has been the year of music.

It used to always just be Kanye that I would listen to because I would use hip hop to get hype. I’d find myself laughing at the lyrics as I actually listened to them, then I’d start to sing along. It’s amazing what acting like Kanye, if just for a song, can do to your self esteem.

And even though my “lets get it goin” playlist on Spotify is still one of my most played ones, I’ve started to use music to just chill.

Thus the creation of my playlist “chiller.”

Chance is classic, but Logic is new to me. Then there’s the old school Drake–you know, the Drake that’s got you remembering people you never had in the first place. There’s Kid Cudi when I want to sing and Wiz when I want to chuckle to myself. (You can’t have a “chill” playlist without the song “medicated”)

There’s a billion artists I didn’t even recognize before but now I put my headphones in and turn all the way up, pretending like they’re here next to me, performing to this audience of one.

I used to do this shit with Ed Sheeran and now it’s A$AP Rocky.

It’s funny how interests grow and change.

(I mean I still love Ed Sheeran though, let’s clear that up.)

I don’t know what the point of this is. I think it’s just because the other day I watched a Nathan Zed video and he said that YouTube really isn’t inspiring him that much anymore. In fact, a lot isn’t inspiring him at all. But he still has music.

Damn I’m thankful for music.

Every once in a while I fall into a rut where I just need some new songs to listen to or I think I’m gonna go insane. But then I fall out of it and feel renewed when I discover new artists and albums I’ve never noticed before.

Okay, yeah, so the point? Not sure. But music is damn amazing.

Now I’m gonna go and let Kendrick finish up with “Bitch don’t kill my vibe.”

Sincerely,

Sammy

THE HEAD VS. THE HEART

The head and the heart are not friends.

Maybe they will be one day, but for now they are not. Not for young women, at least.

The brain nags while the heart tempts.

It persuades.

She’s a crafty devil, the heart, and the brain is the annoyed older sister who rolls her eyes when you, the unsuspecting parent to them both, are duped once again because of ‘feelings’.

And maybe one day these sisters will be on the same page.

But you are young.

So every time a new boy or girl plays their games, and every new time you fall, the heart weeps and the brains says “I told you so.”

Then you repair.

And then it happens all over again.

Young girls must learn to listen to their heads and their hearts, as they are often at war with each other.

Mine are as well, but not in the same way.

See, my brain is a mess.

It’s been described as scattered before, which is really quite fitting, though horrendously overused.

Thoughts often lose their way in my brain because there’s not always a clear path. And when there is, my brain doesn’t always have the power to keep the thoughts, well, on track.

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This is a problem, as I’m sure one could guess. And the solution?

Drugs.

Adderall.

Half a tablet, by mouth, twice a day.

But the heart doesn’t like the medication that the head has been prescribed.

It never has.

It beats ferociously in protest, which only startles the head even more.

Am I dying? the head will think. Surely, this is the way I go.

All logic is lost when the heart loses control because the head becomes singularly focused on one thing, which maybe is the point of all of this.

Maybe it’s just the medication doing it’s job.

Except the heart hates the medication.

After all, it’s the medication’s fault this is happening.

Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome would never be part of my vocabulary if I didn’t have to take adderall.

And I would never have to take adderall if the brain could just focus.

So the heart hates the head.

But alas! the head remarks. Heart palpitations didn’t start out of nowhere when the diagnosis came at age 15.

Remember when your dad dunked your head in ice cold water to slow the insistent beating?

Remember the episode you had during your freshman year of soccer tryouts when you were simply standing by the goalpost?

Remember pulling the hands of AJ and Abbie to your chest, long before you would grow boobs, to show them how insane your heart was acting?

Remember, remember, remember? The head cries, as it pulls the memories like weapons from the vault of repression.

And the heart grows heavy with sadness as the head makes connections.

Because see? the head states. You’d be going crazy with or without the meds.

This hurts the heart, as the truth so often does. But the heart swells with it’s rebuttal, wounded but not yet defeated.

It lets out cries of passion. It throws a fit of rage. It screams until it aches.

I am worked tirelessly, all because you, you dumb brain, can’t function properly!

It kicks and it wheezes, beating faster and faster.

It’s your drugs that send me to dangerous speeds day in and day out.

The head starts to throb, unsure of who is the logical recipient for this anger.

And one day, it’s your drugs that are going to do me in! Because a brain can function if it’s scattered, but a heart can’t pump if it’s constantly being attacked.

The head hurts, because it is hearing the words coming straight from the heart.

The head controls it all. It thinks, oftentimes too much, about what is happening in the body, and it’s aware of the possibility of irreversible damage.

The head is too sad to cry, while the heart is sobbing and shaking, unable to control it’s weeps.

But they continue to battle, because every day the brain justifies the meds and every day the heart tries to fight them off.

Young girls must learn to listen to their heads and their hearts, as they are often at war with each other.

Love vs. logic.

Hope vs. pain.

It’s the battle that’s been written about forever.

Who will win, the head or the heart?

My insides have never quite fought this battle, but their own version rages within with each passing day.

Who will win, the head or the heart?

Which outcome would be better?

Which symptoms would be worse?

ADD or POTS?

Only time will tell.

THIS TOXIC WORLD WE LIVE IN

Dear Reader,

I think about this photo set a lot.

It’s from a TV show called Shameless that I still have to watch but is being RAVED about by everyone I know. I just saw the pictures on Tumblr one day, but it’s stuck with me.

“Renaissance women weren’t forced to starve themselves into an anorexic fashion industry marketing version of female sexuality.”

A lot of my friends are starving. One of my friends is a model and she confessed yesterday that she doesn’t eat as much as she should. We were having a casual conversation when she brought it up, and it slipped in almost unnoticeably because that’s so normal.

She’s also pre-med. She’s extremely smart. She’s funny. She’s edgy. But sometimes she doesn’t eat.

I have another friend who “pulls the trigger.” Again, it’s so casual when she talks about it. Sometimes it’s just when she talks about drinking, she’ll say she pulls the trigger in the bathroom of bars (meaning she causes herself to throw up) so that she can rally and drink more.

I once said to a group of friends “sometimes when you end a night of drinking by throwing up, don’t you feel like, well at least all of those calories are getting out of my body.” It’s a pretty relatable thought, actually.

And then we have my sister. She’s a freshman dance major. She’s an average height and a perfect weight. She’s got just enough of a booty, great calves, flat stomach, and is proportional everywhere else. She’s not a size 0, she may not be tall and super thin, but I’m envious of her body. Plus, she dresses well, can do her makeup like a boss, and is clearly the hotter sister.

This weekend after her recital our mother told her that she would be such a better dance if she lost weight.

She agreed.

She agreed before the thought even escaped from my mother’s mouth, because it’s a thought she’s had many times before.

It just makes me so angry. Everyone I talk to–and me–we know better. We know that we’re healthy and that we should love our bodies and that we shouldn’t think these thoughts.

When I went home for fall break and everyone told me how good I looked and asked if I lost weight, I knew it was toxic for them to say that. Because the reason why I’m losing weight is because I’m eating less. Because I’m off campus and I’m a poor (and frugal) college student. But I know that if I get enough positive reinforcement, I’ll continue to not eat as much as I should. I know that if I’ll keep challenging myself to go longer without eating. I know I’ll start to accept the growl in my stomach as a victory cry and I’ll start looking at food as the enemy.

I know I shouldn’t, but I know how slippery the slope is. I know how easily the brain can be manipulated and how, even unwillingly, the body will follow.

I’m not writing this as a cry for help. I’m starting to meal prep again and get back to working out and set my aim to be healthy.

I just hate this society. I hate that girls are going to extreme measures to live up to an unrealistic beauty standard. And I hate that we all know it, too. But we’re duped anyway because of the constant reinforcement from society that we should look a certain way. Because for every “body love” message I see, there’s ten pictures of thin girls–happy girls–that I want to be more.

I might write more on this topic later, but I just needed to vent. I think I’ll check out Believarexic and Winter Girls from the library this week. Just for more reinforcement.

As for now, though, I think I’ll make some spaghetti for dinner.

Sincerely,

Sammy

“JUST SO YOU KNOW, I CHECK YOUR BLOG LIKE EVERY DAY.”

Dear Reader,

My sister sent me that lovely text this morning. But when I replied, “aww bb” she said “ya but it doesn’t even matter cause you don’t POST ANYTHING ANYMORE.”

Ouch.

But okay, u right.

The thing is, I’ve thought a lot about random blog posts I wanted to write. I read ten books in September and there’s one in particular that I’m dying to talk about. So I thought about doing reviews, but then I could never just find the time. I have two other “journals” (I suppose) that I try to write in and I guess this blog just sort of became neglected.

So then I thought about writing a post called “something’s gotta give.” I actually wrote part of it during one of my lectures, which is kind of ironic because in part of it I was talking about how I was becoming a good student.

And it was just during this time of beautiful clarity where I felt like the pieces in my life were all coming together. I was working out with my friends and exercising daily. I was eating better. I was sleeping more. I was caught up on all my homework and I was enjoying all of my classes and life was just really good.

Then I lost that freakin’ notebook. And my life took a little bit of a spill. (I really want to stress how little the spill was, though, because I am very very aware that many people have things a lot harder. My life is still very very good. Everything is relative.)

I’ve actually been losing a lot of stuff lately, which really pisses me off because I can’t afford to be this much of a hot mess anymore. I lost my brand new water bottle that I got maybe two weeks ago. I lost my favorite pencil (which doesn’t seem like a big deal but it absolutely is and it’s like a $2 pencil). I can’t seem to find my headphones right now, which sucks. And I also couldn’t find the book I need for class today.

I’m also skipping a class today, but it’s to work a shift for my friend who drove home because her best friend from high school’s mom committed suicide last night.

I think I might write about suicide pretty soon, because it’s been on my mind a lot. Not in the way that I’m thinking about it for myself–I’m actually very mentally healthy right now and I really don’t like seasonal depression is going to be an issue for me this year. Let’s hope I didn’t just jinx that though.

But suicide has just been everywhere. My friend had to fly home for his cousin’s funeral a few weeks ago. My friend at school lost his best friend the week before classes started, and the suicide note was written to him. I’ve been noticing all of a sudden how many friends of mine have the semicolon tattoo. Beautiful, hilarious, intelligent and kind friends of mine. And it makes me wonder whether or not they see that. It makes me realize how little I know about what truly goes on in my friends’ minds.

So, I don’t know, I guess I’ve been a little down lately thinking about all this stuff. And every time I try to write about it, the post just gets depressing and I hate that I bummed myself out by thinking about what everyone else has to deal with because it feels like I’m, I don’t know, mooching off of feelings? Or like I don’t have the right. I really can’t articulate the strange shame I feel, but I never finish writing it thinking, “this is good. I’m gonna publish this.”

So there’s your post, Sarah. (lol)

Sorry I’ve been a little all over the place lately. I don’t really know where my head’s at. And I guess sorry for no longer using my blog to figure that stuff out. I feel like it just got too repetitive. Like how many times have I written about why I started this blog? Or how many times have I said “I’m writing for clarity!” It was boring me, so I’m sure it was boring all of you.

Wow. I really don’t want to post this.

This is the kind of thing that I end up deleting and immediately trying to forget about.

But, what the hell, let’s just hit publish.

I think I just want Sarah (or whoever else) to log on and think, “oh wow, she wrote today!”

Sincerely,

Sammy

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LET’S TALK ABOUT MY LOVE LIFE, SHALL WE?

Spoiler alert: it’s still barren.

Dear Reader,

I’ve been reading a lot of books recently. YA novels, to be more specific. I have to read one a week but I’ve sort of become obsessed with reading again so I’m already on book six. (Many reviews to come.)

You want to know what a lot of YA novels have in common, though?

Love stories.

Young love stories.

Stories of kids falling in love so easily and so quickly that adult authors write reviews that say things like, “a first-love story so well remembered and honest that it reminds you what falling in love feels like.”

TIME said that.

Well guess who hasn’t fallen in love.

Yeah, it’s me.

I don’t think back to high school and remember the feeling of being excited when that boy was waiting outside my classroom, ready to walk me to my first class. I can’t recall being asked out on a date or having butterflies when he picked me up. I never fooled around in a basement while his parents were upstairs and I never had anyone worth sneaking out of my house for.

I know I sound really bitter, but I just wish I had those experiences. I wish I had those memories.

You want to know the story of my first kiss?

It was the summer before freshman year of college (I know) and I was in the driver’s seat of my car (I know), dropping off the only guy who ever reciprocated feelings to the same extent as I did (I could get into this in more detail but I’m exhausted by just the thought of explaining this further). He abruptly turned, sort of jumped on me, went for the kiss and missed, pulled away, went for it once more, and missed again. Then, embarassed, muttered “let’s not tell anyone about this,” and quickly left.

I had to drive back to my house while peaking through the gaps between my fingers because I was covering my face with my hands. I cringed the whole way home. I was laughing and rolling my eyes, but I legitimately face-palmed for the fifteen-minute drive home.

We didn’t talk or see each other for a few weeks after that.

Cute little innocent embarrassing story? Maybe when you’re twelve or fourteen. When you’re going on eighteen (or eighteen and a half in his case), it can sort of stunt any romantic progress and prolong your awkward period when it comes to relationships.

So now I’m vicariously living through books.

And I’m reading these books like, how are these girls finding such great guys? And how am I so far different from these girls?

I know they’re characters and they’re fictional stories (except for the one I’m reading now), but it’s weird being in college without having passed these milestones that everyone else seems to have hit ages ago.

It’s similar to when recent grads are applying to jobs but won’t get hired because they don’t have any prior experience and they’re like, okay that makes sense except how am I going to get prior experience if no one will hire me??

That’s me in the dating world right now.

Sincerely,

Sammy

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WHY AM I WRITING? (OH RIGHT, INSOMNIA)

Dear Reader,

I can’t sleep. I’ve read a book for class. I’ve come up with scenarios in my head to try and inspire some dreams. I’ve even written down a few of these late night thoughts. 

And then I thought, Sammy, why don’t you just write something for your BLOG? 

So I started writing a list. A list of things that this blog post could be about. But then I realized that this list is not producing any quality, uplifting ideas. 

Why? Probably because it’s 2:30 and I’m sad because I’m thinking too much and my brain sort of sucks. 

My list began with: write about how uncomfortable I am. Because I literally am never comfortable in my own body. Never. I always feel too big or too pasty or too clunky or clumsy (but not in the good way). And I thought, I could write about that because that’s relatable, right? 

Except that post would be depressing as shit and I’ve already cried tonight. So no thank you. 

Then I thought, ooh your birthday’s coming up! Write about that! But my first thought was I hate birthdays. And then I thought, wow I can’t believe I’ve already reached that age. And then I thought, shit wait I’m way too young to be hating my birthday. I should be looking forward to it and making plans and texting all my friends about it…

…but instead I’m just anticipating more disappointment. And realizations. And sadness. 

And then I thought, well shit Sammy, don’t write anything at all then! Because every thought I have late at night is self deprecating and they definitely don’t deserve to be recorded–mind you, published on your blog. 

But I’m in the middle of doing that right now, aren’t I?

Where are you going with this Sammy?

Freshman year I wrote a post about how everything is harder at night. Maybe it’s because my head is spinning a mile a minute about all the mistakes I’ve made today. Maybe it’s because my house is creaking and I’m still lowkey afraid of the dark (and ghosts, and serial killers, and did I lock the front door?). Maybe it’s because I’m just alone with ME and who I am as a person and I haven’t really learned how to love myself yet. 

But the night is hard. It hasn’t always been, but suddenly now it always it. 

Yet every morning after I cry myself to sleep, I wake up with the sun and things seem easier. 

Things may never BE as simple as they seem in the morning–before you have time to over analyze it all–but they’re also never as hard as they seem at night. 

They’re just things. Things that can be dealt with in the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the early evening. 

Things that can be dealt with by myself or with the help of friends or my sister. 

Things that have no place being dealt with right now because what am I going to do about it at 3AM besides worry?

Nothing. 

3AM is not for thoughts. 3AM is for sleep.

(Actually I might tweet that lol)

And while that might be easier said than done, maybe if I repeat it enough, it’ll happen. I’ll finally sleep.

And then the morning will come and I’ll roll my eyes and laugh at this blog post because I am probably being way too dramatic for a twenty year old. 

Sincerely,

Sammy

THESE ARE THINGS NOW

Dear Reader,

A week ago I moved into my house at college that I’m sharing with seven other girls. I am in “living room 2” with another girl, there’s a girl in the “dining room,” and then the other five live upstairs.

I was basically only acquainted with three people when I signed the lease, so these first seven days involved a lot of me getting to know them. In turn, they had to learn some things about me.

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I’m not putting a picture of my real house on here, so here’s a random one from the internet that looks just as homey as mine. 🙂

Here are my realizations from week one:

Food. First of all, I know I’m not a great chef. I knew coming into this that I wasn’t going to be the roommate to cook five star meals for every dinner–but what I didn’t expect was for everyone else to do just that. My housemates are out here making fancy pastas and baking talapia and boiling corn on the cob, while I’m just sitting at the table eating my daily bowl of ramen noodles. There are even cookbooks in our kitchen. I might start perusing them as I eat my peanut butter sandwiches.

Speaking of peanut butter: I swear, some people have never seen a jar of peanut butter before in their life. Well, none that are the size of the kind I brought. I’m too lazy to check it right now, but it’s about four times the size of a normal one I guess and I’ve had a conversation with every last housemate about this fun fact.

Something else I’ve found myself doing is trying to be more subtle when I’m gross. I do a lot of gross shit, alright? Well, it’s not gross to me to let out the occasional burp or drink out of the milk jug, but I can see why that might cause someone to crinkle their noise. All that happens when I hide doing that stuff, or suppress my bad habits, is realize how many gross habits I have. It’s great.

Medical shit. We’re learning more about each other every day. We talk about our classes and our majors. We’ll mention the organizations we’re involved with and the meetings we have. We bring up our families and bring over our friends. But when is the appropriate time to mention low-key medical “quirks?”

When it becomes relevant I guess.

Every person I’ve ever lived with has found out about my POTS because I’ve had to send them a distress text asking them to bring me pretzels. So today when I came home to a full house after having a bit of an episode in our student center, I decided I should probably mention it soon. I mean, it’s not like they should be worried that I’m gonna drop dead on them or something–but if I come home and act weird or lock myself in my room or the bathroom–or if they see me with my legs in the air and my dad on speaker phone–it might be useful to let them into the loop.

TV/YouTube. I’ve also been way more self-conscience of what I’m watching (especially since I can’t find my headphones currently). You can see right into my room when you open the front door, and because my door is normally open, you might find me watching The Philip DeFranco show or a David Dobrik blog. I always forget how weird that stuff must sound to others.

Also, we all bring out our computers or other devices to watch shows when we’re cooking or whatever. I love playing the game is it Parenthood or Gilmore Girls? because hearing Lauren Graham’s voice isn’t quite enough to make the distinction. But then someone will walk into the kitchen while I’m watching Criminal Minds and cooking my eggs and there’s some rape or murder scene on my screen. Then we have a nice little chat about how disturbing we both find the show and discuss our new paranoias.

So it’s been an interesting few days. You can hear practically every noise in the house, so my daily naps have been a bit compromised (probably for the best, though). Other than that, I’m really digging this house and the people I share it with.

It’s gonna be a good year.

Sincerely,

Sammy

HAPPY VS. SATISFIED

Dear Reader,

Lately I’ve been waking up around 7 or 8 every morning, completely exhausted, but I’ll force myself to get up and go on with my day (forgoing my daily nap, I might add) until I decide it’s time to turn in–well, until Sarah decides it’s time and I follow suit. This is normally around 10pm, but I never fall asleep before midnight.

Instead, for those two hours (sometimes more like four hours) I think about life. Obviously. Because that’s what people do when the sun goes down and the world gets a little quieter and they’re forced to be alone with their thoughts.

Tonight’s topic of choice (I mean, not that I have much say in where my brain wanders) is life in general and, well, the pursuit of happiness I guess.

It kind of started with me thinking about where I want to go in life. I still want to be a teacher. I still want to write novels. I’m on pretty solid paths to both of these careers, I’d like to think, but I’m not ready for that stage yet.

I’m only (almost) twenty–and actually, maybe that’s why I’m having all of these thoughts. All of these clichéd, angsty thoughts about how much I feel like I just don’t fit in anywhere and how much I continue to crave the approval of others. As much as I hate to admit it, I care way too much what people think. I want people to like me and when they don’t–which I always feel like they don’t–I curl up further into my shell where the wheel of self-deprecation is turning faster and faster. The repeating thoughts of how annoying or awkward or ugly or stupid I am just repeat like overused mantras.

And maybe that’s the root of my problems, but that’s not even the main subject of what I was psychoanalyzing tonight.

All I kept thinking to myself was, I am so unhappy.

Just repeating, over and over, I am so unhappy playing like a record in my head until I decided to abruptly rip the needle from the groove and force it to be silent. Because I had a correction: maybe I’m not unhappy, maybe I’m just not satisfied.

After all, I have plenty to be happy for! And I know that’s not exactly how it works, but if you look at my life or you walk a day in my shoes, you would find plenty to smile about. So why is it that I find myself crying the minute those days turn to night?

I must just be unsatisfied.

I still see myself as a pretty ambitious person. I haven’t necessarily given up on my big dreams from my childhood (besides, well, the lounge singer in England or the cellist in the Broadway pit). And maybe I’m just living a wildly unfulfilled life, but I’m twenty. I still have plenty of time to get to those big plans of mine.

But satisfaction isn’t happiness in the same way that unhappiness isn’t dissatisfaction. You can be satisfied with a performance and still be unhappy in the same way that you can be happy and not yet satisfied.

Ah, we’ve reached the part of the post where the rambling becomes mundane and repetitive, so I better wrap this up.

This isn’t a post about depression and this isn’t a post to say I’m going to kick myself into gear and finally try to get some fulfillment out of my life (though I probably should).

This is just me trying to get my thoughts down in order to understand where I’m at a little better. And I think we’ve all come to the conclusion that I’m just another average twenty-year-old girl who’s trying to gain some kind of control on her life, all too aware that she’s just another cliché.

Sorry for the word vomit.

Sincerely,

Sammy

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MY NEW NETFLIX LOVE

Dear Reader,

I have about two weeks before school starts, and less than one until I move in. So I should probably be preparing, right? I mean, there’s still so much to do! I have to plan out what I’m going to fit in my room, I have to pack it all up, and then I need to prepare for class of course. I should probably give that book list another look before heading back to school.

I know all of this. I know what I should be doing, and I’ve just barely started it all, but then good old Philip DeFranco recommended “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” on Netflix–and he highly recommended it. So, me being me, I decided to start watch it.

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And holy shit.

To be fair, I had pretty low expectations of the show. I hadn’t heard that much about it and the last thing I watched because Philly D said to (David Cross’s standup) wasn’t spectacular. So, I just started it because why the hell not? I’m between shows anyway so might as well.

Now here I am four episodes in and obsessed. Let me explain why.

First of all, it’s a musical. And it’s not like Glee where they’re all covers or like Scrubs or HIMYM where there’s one episode in the whole series where everyone sings a lot. No, every episode has like two original songs that are super funny in their social commentary style.

It reminds me a lot of Amy Schumer or SNL, actually. One of the first songs is all about the effort it takes to get ready for a date and it just seems like the type of song that people would share all over Facebook, tagging their friends like “@Sarah omg this is literally me last night.”

But also–and this is important–they can actually sing! And not in the way like you give a Disney star a song just because she can carry a tune. No, these people were born for shows like this because they’re funny, they’re good actors, and they’ve got amazing voices.

Also, the lead is a normal sized human. WHAT? Yeah I know, my standards for TV these days must be super low for me to be impressed with actors who can actually act and people who look like they eat like me, but honestly. When I watched Gossip Girl I wanted to skip meals and try diet pills (no joke–well, half joke–but to be fair I was in a bad place during my freshman year of college). When I watch Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and see her jumping around trying to fit into spanx and then thrashing around in a leopard-print leotard in the next cut, it’s comforting.

When I see her walk into a grocery store looking like this

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I feel at home. I feel like my demographic is being represented, okay? It’s important.

Also, back to the singing, freakin’ Santino Fontana is on the show. AKA Hans from Frozen. Yep, that voice is speaking every episode, which is honestly enough for me to watch. Plus he’s the good guy now–the one I’m rooting for–so I’m proud of his redemption.

Like I said, I’m only four episodes in, but I really went into this thinking it was going to be stupid. I mean, a girl quits her job and moves across the country to chase a guy she dated for a summer when she was fourteen. A show like that can’t hold up, right?

So I thought.

Anyway, I thought I’d share my new obsession because I just want it to be appreciated by others. Maybe it’s because I sort of grew up listening to Broadway (thanks Mom) but this show really speaks to me, okay? If you can make a point and be funny in an original song, you’ve won my heart.

Also the production value of this show must be crazy so I’m thinking they’re going to need a pretty big audience if it’s going to keep getting renewed.

EVERYONE WATCH IT–SEASON 1 IS ON NETFLIX!

Sincerely,

Sammy