It’s easy when you fall for a stranger. A cute guy in your Monday/Friday class. The barista at your local coffee shop. Even a guy online.

Because you can perceive them however you want, and you can romanticize a relationship out of thin air.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know you don’t actually like this person. You just like how he looks. You like something he said one time. You like the way he chooses to present himself, in those fleeting moments.

And maybe you pick up pieces here and there, clues to who he might be at his core, but this person is still not a real guy to you. Not one with potential for anything. Just one you think about when you’re bored and heading to the only setting you’ve ever seen him in.

Someone you can harmlessly enter into a daydream, because you don’t even recognize his facial features well enough to picture him vividly. You don’t know him well enough to presume how he would act, so you can make it up for him. 

He’s just a model–a starter character that you can take any way you want.

Don’t ever get to know this guy.

Don’t talk to him in line or ask him questions about his day or who he is. Don’t engage at all, because there are only two things that can come from it.

First, he can burst your bubble. And if you let your mind run wild (which is always a dangerous thing to do), this will almost always be inevitable. Because no one can compare to the man you’ve come up with who is the perfect combination of Jim Halpert, Jonathan Groff, and Chris Pratt.

Or, he can prove to you that he’s real.

Because if you start having conversations with him, if you start asking him questions, you’ll learn more about him. You’ll learn about what he’s like. You’ll learn about all you have in common. You’ll see real potential,

and then you’ll realize that none of this–of what you’ve been doing–is real.

Because a baby crush is one thing. A faceless body in a daydream is one thing, but an accepted Facebook request is another.

It’s fun to be the dreamer until you run into the reality of the one-sided relationship you’ve accidentally gotten yourself into.

So keep this man a stranger.

But if he somehow manages to turn himself into something more, just imagine him in a voting booth, checking the box for Donald Trump.

Turn him into a deal-breaker before your imagination refuses to let him go.




Dear Reader,

Lately I’ve been spending way too much time on the floor of public bathrooms.

Not because I’m an alcoholic or am making too many bad life decisions all in a row (well I might be, but that’s unrelated), but because I have POTS.

This morning I woke up and needed food–and because I keep none in my dorm, I had to leave to buy some. So at 10am, I strolled into the market with crimped, previously straightened, bed-head and mascara smudges on the bags of my eyes. I was wearing my high school soccer sweats paired with a “Future Wine Moms of America” sweatshirt and Bud Lite slippers.

There was probably no doubt in anyone’s minds that I had gone out last night.

(Side note: I didn’t. I went to a fancy dinner as my extremely-accomplished-friend’s plus one and then spent the rest of the night interviewing people for a profile feature. It’s funny how looks how deceive.)

I searched the store to see what I was in the mood for and decided on my go-to: cheese and crackers with a large bottle of water and an awake bar.

Because I am the person I am (or possibly because I broke my mirror this morning and will be receiving seven years of bad luck now), I got stuck behind a girl who was only buying three things: blueberries, drinks, and ice cream cones. But she bought about nine of each.

And the cashier was incompetent probably new. He rang up each ice cream cone, then realized it hadn’t worked, and had to run to the back of the store to get a similar one at the same price to try and ring up.

This isn’t a huge deal. The line wasn’t big and I only waited for about five minutes until it was my turn. But by the time she was gone and he was grabbing for my groceries while apologizing for the wait, I could barely make out the features in his face.

I tried to push on and said, “I only have my banner ID,” while tapping desperately on my phone trying to get my most recent screenshot of the number to open.

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll get my manager.”

“No, no.” I tried to stop him. “I can tell you how to do it.” Working at King Cafe, I know how all the cash registers on campus work and I have shown many a student employee how to charge my account when I forget (or in this case, lose) my card.

(Side note: This happens at least bi-weekly)

“Oh no, I know how to do it. But my manager has to do it for me,” he tried to assure me.

Wrong again, I thought to myself, but at this point his entire face was splotched out and I couldn’t wait any longer. I was about to pass out.

“Alright, I’m sorry, I’m just going to sit down. I’m seeing stars,” I told him as I stumbled towards the tables and sat on one of the high seats. With my head in my hands, I realized this really wasn’t going to help my situation because the blood in my body wouldn’t return to my head unless I was on the ground.

But I wasn’t about to do that here.

At this point, the manager is at the cashier with the boy and they’re still mostly worried about the banner number dilemma. I kind of heard them like I was underwater but I smiled in my head as I realized that she was scrutinizing him because it’s not like she can just come to his side every time someone doesn’t have their ID–she has far more important things to do.

I got up at this point and said, “do you guys have a bathroom?”

“It’s not very clean, but come with me, girl.”

I followed the manager into the “employees only” section of the store and she pointed me towards the single bathroom in the far back corner.

I  collapsed onto the floor and propped my legs on the sink, waiting for my breathing to slow and the stars to subside.

It really never takes long once I reach this point to calm down and return my body to normal, but as I stared at the fluorescent lights above me, I realized how familiar of a perspective this is for me.

After a few moments, I sat up and chugged some water and realized how gross the tile floor was that I was laying on. But my head still felt funny and I didn’t know if I could make it back to my room without another episode, so I used my sweatshirt as a pillow, and lay down for a few more minutes before returning to buy my groceries and leave.

It was there that I snapped this picture to send to a few friends–not to worry them–just to say, look how great my life’s going right now.

Especially since many of them had already seen this picture from my snap story.


Anyway, so that’s the story of this morning. I really don’t know if I had a reason for writing it, it’s just that sometimes I think, why? Why  now do I have to deal with the fear of passing out in public. Why do I all of a sudden have to explain to strangers that I need to lay down because I haven’t had enough salt today? Why do I have to have a disease that sounds worse when I actually explain it?

I mean, postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome?

Come on.

And, again, I know lots of people have it worse and lots of other people are asking why them for things I can’t even fathom dealing with. But, ugh, why??

Why do I have to be so familiar with public bathrooms?




Dear Reader,

My life is ridiculous enough for mildly entertaining stories, but not ridiculous enough for me to eventually make a sitcom out of my experiences, and that makes me sad.

If you don’t already know, I’ve been posting on instagram every day this year for a 365-day-challenge (except it’s a leap year so 366 days, except this story brings me back down to 365. You’ll get it in a sec.) So yesterday I posted this picture:


With THIS caption: (literally this same exact one because I always send the caption to my sister first and if she says it’s funny, I’ll post it and if she says it’s not, I’ll say YOU’RE NOT FUNNY and post it.)

“I prefer to take my selfies on Snapchat because honestly the filters are 100x better.”

And THEN today I log on and see THIS.


NOW, a little MORE background information. When something on instagram could be offensive or doesn’t agree with the morals behind my sorority, we can get “ducked” by our risk management chair, which basically means they put an emoji of a duck on our picture and we either have to change the caption or delete the photo because it is not appropriate to post (in one way or another).

In the past four days, I’ve been ducked TWICE.

And then today this happens??

So basically what I’ve decided is that I am incapable of making captions that aren’t offensive and I should probably just give up on instagram before I am ostracized by everyone who’s ever known me.

But anyway, I sent in a complaint and I’ll let you know what they say in return. Because honestly this is more entertaining to me than studying for linguistics.

Here’s the note:

“Dear Instagram,

I am very upset because my picture yesterday was taken down for an unclear reason. You can go look at my recent post to see both the picture and the message that I received when I logged on today, but basically I posted a picture that I took on snap chat and said, “I prefer to take my selfies on snap chat because honestly the filters are 100x better.” The picture featured me using the snap chat app to look like a bunny. It was a joke (v funny in my opinion) and I was offended that it was taken down.

I have posted every day on this app since the beginning of 2016 and this blunder caused me to mess up my streak. Needless to say, I am LIVID. It got positive feedback in my community and I got hella likes so I would appreciate a response so I can try to understand the reasoning behind why the picture was taken down or what exact guidelines I failed to follow.

Please respond as soon as you can or I might have to take my talent elsewhere.”




I really am not that much of a partier, yet some people think that I am. On our last day at Miami, Jaden and I had a meal with two people we only saw very occasionally throughout the school year. They asked me how many days out of the year I’ve been sober, which kind of caught me off guard.

Maybe it’s because I go to a top party school in the US or because I’m in a sorority. Or maybe it’s because on the nights I do go out, I get really social. Because I get really drunk. And that’s just my drunk persona I guess.

But, to be honest, I never so much as tasted alcohol until the July after I graduated. And, even then, I probably only went to 4 parties that summer, and at school I don’t go out more than once a week. I’ve never gone out on a weeknight (besides GBD), and I don’t go out every weekend.

I’m a homebody for many reasons–mostly self-esteem involved–but that’s not the point. The point is that I’m not the kind of person who has more drunk days than sober days at college. And I’m certainly not the kind of person who would throw a party the second that her parents go out of town.

But when Sean came downstairs and said it’d be hilarious if I invited some friends over to party with his friends, I didn’t even hesitate. I just started texting.

Now, this is weirder than it sounds, because Sean and I have never really gotten along. In fact, he just recently told me that his friends know me as “the bitch.” This is in part due to my junior high days, as well as in part due to his exaggerations and the fact that none of them really know me, but I didn’t even give it a second thought. Instead, I just co-hosted a house part that comprised of the weirdest group of people.

We had Sean’s friends and mine, as well as some people I had never seen before, and others that just came and left before I even realized they were there. But it wasn’t a huge party by any means–and I’m fortunate. Nobody got hurt. Nobody called the cops. Nothing major happened.

I locked myself out of my room and lost my phone for most of the night. I found various hats and headbands to try on and I cleaned up someone’s pee. It was just your average party.

And we had all day Sunday to clean up–which we utilized. We swept and vacuumed and mopped and sanitized. We filled three trash bags and I assumed that Sean would be the one to take them to the dumpster. After all, he had been through this before. He’d already done this charade–I was the newbie. But he thought it was my job because we put them on the first floor, which was my responsibility. So we both went to bed figuring that we’d just take care of it the next morning, since our parents weren’t coming home until the afternoon.

Flash-forward to 10:40 the next morning, when my mom is yelling, “we’re home!”


I get a text from Sean.

Mom is home. 

Is everything good? 

I’ll take the fall for it

What’s wrong??

Beer cans downstairs


I’m just gonna say we were drinking while playing poker last night. 

Tell Sarah so she doesn’t say anything. 

Now, I was really impressed with Sean’s selfless offer, but my mind was still reeling with everything we might have forgotten. Are there beer bottles upstairs? Does the kitchen still smell like beer? Did anyone take out the trash bags??


So my parents finally arrive home after waking up at 5AM and driving the 6 hours from Canada, and the first thing they see are three trash bags that reek of alcohol and are filled with bottles.

And then my little sister comes barreling through, unaware of the scene she just walked into, and goes on to confess to everything that happened over the weekend.

Yeah, we couldn’t get to her in time.

But I think in the end, it’s better that they know it all. And I’m glad we can be done with the lying.

So that’s kind of the whole story up to this point. We got the expected disappointed speeches about how disrespectful this was and do we know how much trouble Dad, as a very well-known doctor in this town, could get into? And, of course, how we’re never being left home alone again.

But I feel like the story isn’t finished yet. This was just the beginning of what is supposed to be my last summer at home, and I think we might’ve just altered the dynamic in a way that can’t be repaired. And even though we spent all of yesterday cleaning, our parents have made it known that our punishment has yet to really begin.

So the true moral may be clearer in hindsight, but I still decided to ask my siblings what they think the lesson here is. My brother says he’ll never trust me with any ounce of responsibility ever again. My sister says she’ll never ever lie to our parents ever again. And I think it could be a lot of things. Maybe I should be more respectful, or more careful. Maybe I should just think things all the way through from now on.

But I certainly know I’ll never throw a party at this house ever again. Because it’s just not worth it.


Dear Reader,

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’m going to get back around to the weekly pictures but for a while it was just kind of a chore, so I stopped. One, because I want to spend my time doing something I enjoy and something I’ll look forward to. And two, because I’m really bad at completing my chores.

But I have an update. I mean, it has been a while since I last wrote. I’m done with school now, and I’ll never be a freshman again. Things are changing and some have already changed.

But I have an idea. I’ve been realizing more and more how awful my memory is, which is a really sad realization. I feel like sometimes my memory is very selective, too. I think I just block things out. Just an example: I hated my brother all throughout our teens. But when I think about this, it’s sometimes hard to remember why, exactly. I’ll think, well he was mean to me, but then I can’t think of anything he ever did, specifically.

And then I’ll read my journal. I’ve kept a journal since the sixth grade, but when I was in high school I only wrote in it a few times and it was always after something happened. A lot of this had to do with Sean. So I’ll read about some of the things he would say to me, or stories about some of the fights we’ve had, and it’ll all come rushing back. Memories that I just blocked out because they were embarrassing or hurtful or just painful to relive.

Anyway, these memories aren’t exactly the ones I wish to recall, but there are some stories that I forget about completely until something random reminds me of them. And some of those stories are worth remembering, and worth sharing.

I’ve been watching a lot of How I Met Your Mother recently, which is how I got the idea to create a storybook. I want to start documenting the momentous occasions of my early adult years. I want to have stories I can tell my children.

Because every good story has a moral, right? A lesson that needs to be learned, sometimes the hard way. There’s definitely a moral of the story I’m going to share tomorrow…

But even more, having a storybook will encourage me to fill it. It will encourage me to stop being a homebody and actually go out. It will encourage me to believe every night can be legendary.

So I have a hard copy of this, but I’m also going share some of these stories here, because why not? I’ve been neglecting WordPress lately, and I’d like to get back at it. And what better way to get back at it than with a story?





I find books refreshing.

Chapter One.

You meet your protagonist. Sometimes you meet them in their worst state–directly after a tragedy. You meet a shell of a person. Pathetic. Probably not doing much. Wondering if they can carry on. But you know they will.

You read Chapter One and you know there’s going to be more. Many more. Sometimes hundreds of chapters.

And you know that by the last chapter, your character will be whole again. Or on their way.

You don’t know what’s about to happen within these pages, I mean sometimes you have an idea, but you don’t know for sure. And, of course, even your best guesses can sometimes be horribly wrong. There are such things as plot twists, you know.

And sometimes, many times, I find, the book turns out to be a better story than you could’ve hoped for. The characters your protagonist meets are surprising. They’re loving and supportive. They deal with their own troubles too, of course, yet they’re still so good.

Then there’s all of these crazy events that happen. Weird plot lines and crazy stories and remarkable adventures, all covered on these next pages.

But then it ends. If you think as I do–and I encourage you to make the jump with me–these characters lives’ don’t end. There are epilogues, some never told. The characters don’t just die at the end of their novel. At least not always. Not all of them.

I like to believe that they live on, sometimes ordinarily. Maybe something not quite sequel-worthy, but they live on.

But the story is so important. Everything that starts with Chapter One and ends on Chapter Who’s-Keeping-Count-Anymore is important. The characters develop. The problem is solved. The world is right again.

I don’t know that my story has started yet, but I take comfort in the fact that I can be far from perfect when it does. And I surely won’t end up as a perfect character, but I like to believe that something incredible is in store for me. Not that I should just wait around for it, but it’s nice to believe that everything is going to be okay.

One day, I’ll have my own Chapter One. I might be a hot mess, but we’ll just go with it.

My story will be written.

On days as sad as this one, it’s nice to believe that this might one day happen to me. It’s nice to escape into the mind of my 10-year-old self and believe that I am the star of my own story.

It’s nice to find books refreshing.


Dear Reader,

The other day I found myself deeply analyzing every aspect of my life. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and it certainly wasn’t a good idea for me to continue, but I couldn’t stop. I sat there in class, re-living every small detail of my short, pathetic life, and I came to the conclusion that it is unusually, unspeakably boring.

For one of my English classes, we have to write essays Personal essays, lyric essays, digital essays. We’re learning all the different ways you can tell a story. But here’s the thing: I don’t have very many stories to tell.

My first was about the state championship game, but it was all about how I was an irrelevant, forgettable member to this amazing team. It was about how confused and undeserving I felt through it all and how I, to this day, don’t know how to feel. In fact, it wasn’t much of a story at all. I played soccer, I was just decent enough to continue with varsity, and they won the championships. I wrote about my inner thoughts and feelings and analyzed how it all made me feel and how my life will be spent trying to accomplish more than this feat that I wasn’t really a part of.

My second story was about the root of my insecurity issues. Once again, not a story. Just some comments that have been made over the years, the changing of my mindset and the way I see my reflection in the mirror, and how I act nowadays.

But these aren’t stories. 

I don’t have a story.

And that’s kind of why I started this blog–at least that’s what I said. In my first post, I said that I don’t have a story, but I want one. I am a protagonist in a novel that is going nowhere. But just once I want something spectacular to happen.

But those things don’t just happen. At least not to people like me.

So the other day I was looking up personal essay ideas because for my third essay in my English class, I have no idea what to write about. And that’s when these realizations hit me.

The experience of overcoming a fear. The proudest moment of your life. Your most fortunate day. A visitor that you can’t forget. A special morning. A kiss that meant a lot.

I read these ideas and nothing came to mind. Nothing. Sure, I’ve had good days and proud moments, but nothing story-telling worthy.

And there were other ideas that should’ve made me feel fortunate that they didn’t prompt a memory. The hardest news you had to deliver. The ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. When you needed a hug. A disastrous date. The breakup of a friendship.

Nothing has happened to me.

I’m eighteen years old and I haven’t felt true pain or true happiness. I haven’t done anything worth writing about and I haven’t learned anything worth sharing. I’ve never been head-over-heels in love and I’ve never been heartbroken. I’ve never been addicted and I’ve never overcame an evil. I’ve never needed to be strong and I’ve never broken down because I’m weak.

I don’t want a broken home or a problem trusting people because I’ve been hurt. I don’t want to hate my simple life, but I can’t help be bored with it all. I don’t wish for all the sorrow in the world unless it can help me feel truly happy–a feeling that I don’t think I’ve yet felt.

So I don’t know where I’m going with this. Just like I don’t know where I’m going in life, I guess. I’m not going to go smoke crack or drop out of school or stir up drama in my life.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just know I have to be careful.

Because right now I’m searching for something more out of life. After all, it’s supposed to be this indescribable stream of events that make you who you are and teach you more than you could ever learn in a classroom.

But for me it’s entirely underwhelming.

And I know that if I look to make it more, I’m going to encounter plenty of sorrow searching for joy.

I just think in the end, it could be worth it.



PS. The best cover of Hey Ya (by Outkast) that I’ve ever seen/heard. Enjoy.

Being The Protagonist

Dear Reader,

This all seems familiar. I’m up much later than I should be and I have to wake up much earlier than I’d like to tomorrow. And I’m feeling the urge to write. To bring some clarity into my life. To ramble on until I find my point.

Yes, this same situation happened on one of the first days of my summer, June 16, when I wrote my first blogpost about “my story.” And now, on one of the last days of my summer, I am experiencing an epiphany.

I mentioned in said post that I see all people as characters. And because it is in my human nature to be narcissistic and self-centered, I see myself as the main character of a story. My story.

But oh my WORD would that be an awful story. I’ve had, what, maybe two love interests in my seventeen years of life. I’ve spent countless Friday nights skipping football games and social events to stay home and kill my weekend either on the internet or simply daydreaming. And I’ve had an embarrassing number of awkward encounters and situations that I cringe when I look back.

And I looked at all of this–all of these reasons why my story sucks–and I thought, why? And then I realized the common problematic factor is me. Maybe it’s because I’m too young to have truly lived, but I think I’ve mostly just missed opportunities to grow. To learn and to live.

So my plan was to cram it all in this summer… but that didn’t happen.

The main reason why is because I completely over scheduled myself with two jobs and I underestimated how much time and effort it takes to prepare for college. The other reason, though, is something that was obvious but I chose to ignore.

It is hard to change. Not impossible (I haven’t given up yet), but really damn hard.

I had this idea at the beginning of summer of the “character” that I wanted to turn into. I wanted to be intelligent and healthy and beautiful and funny and charming and maybe a bit introverted and shy, but altogether a good time and a good friend. The true list was much longer, but those are some of the main points.

So I was going to become this character–this ideal person that I’ve always wanted to be–and then my story would start. I would attract all the right supporting characters (don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on ditching my current friends and family or anything, I’m just looking to expand as I move onto college) and go on these novel-worthy adventures. Or, at the very least, live adventures that are worth telling my children some day.

But here’s what I forgot: the best characters are dynamic. They change and grow as the story reveals itself. Look at A Tale of Two Cities! This is a favorite book of mine so I’ll skip any major spoilers, but Sydney Carton is basically a loser turned hero. But it’s because of the plot, the adventure, the characters, that this happened.

So I may not have all of the qualities that I want, and I’m not going to stop working on my own to get smarter and healthier and all that, but I’m going to stop letting the qualities that I don’t possess stop me from doing, well, anything. Because maybe stepping out of my comfort zone every once in a while and partaking in adventures that I would have once declined for various reasons, maybe that will help. Maybe those experiences will make me funnier or more interesting.

At the very least, I’ll have more stories to tell.

In other news, I am moving into my dorm in exactly two weeks and plan to keep up with “Sincerely Sammy” by writing once a week. With five classes, club tennis, a job, and the desire to have a social life and live these adventures that I have talked so fondly about, I may not have a ton of spare time. But this is something I really like doing and I feel bad for neglecting it.

Thank you if you’ve made it this far–I know it’s been a while since I’ve rambled on like this. You can look forward to a review of the book Paper Towns, a recap of my July/end-of-summer bucket list, and possibly a letter to incoming high school freshmen. Or you can not look forward to them. They’ll be on my blog regardless.