Fly, or fall

A poem for Jack

Baby boy
Not so much a baby anymore
Watching you attempt brand new things
Scary, unknown things
Every day
Makes me say
Over and over in my head
Fly, or fall, my son
But take the leap.


Always take the leap.


I’ll be ever present
From far enough away
To give you courage if you need it
But not close enough to do it for you.


Leap into the unknown, my son
Because you will either
Fly, or fall
And either way you will be better for it.


I have no doubt
That you will mostly fly.
I can see it in the
Bite of your lip
Clench of your fist and
Gaze in your eye.


Lord, let you fly even when you doubt yourself
Carry you on
Wings that you cannot see
Wings that are made from the love and support
Of those who will not let you fall.


But sometimes, you will fall.


And not all falling is bad
You will learn from the hard falls
Carry forward with you the lessons realized
On the way down
Or even at rock bottom


And then there are the falls I hope for--
Your life falling into place and of course
One day, your falling in love


No matter how scary
Or unknown the outcome
Take the leap, my son
Because if you don’t, you will neither fly nor fall
But instead stay frozen
Wondering
What if
And it will be the what ifs that haunt you
Not the falls--
I promise you.


Fly, or fall, my son
But always take the leap.

New Motherhood Truths

We're all constantly subjected to it every time we open Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat: The flawless, polished moms and babies of social media. Infants spanking clean, decked out in their cutest onesies, early smiles spanning from adorable chubby cheek to adorable chubby cheek. Moms with perfectly curled hair, full makeup and freshly threaded eyebrows. Ah, motherhood in the age of social media.

Then I consider myself. I have a six week old. He's covered in crusted milk, wears nothing but a diaper 90% of the time, and wails more than he smiles. My hair's been in a bun since I went into labor, I couldn't tell the difference between a tube of mascara and lip gloss and I'm sporting a killer Frida Kahlo unibrow.

Motherhood has always been glamorized in the media, from ads in 1930s Good Housekeeping magazines to current WASPy Lululemon moms getting their kids happily out of the house, on time for school in Eggo commercials. But it wasn't until social media that people began to see their friends and acquaintances—people they actually knew—putting on a picture-perfect (literally) facade of how easy motherhood is. Cue the feeling shitty-ness.

Well, it's all a farce. Here are some truths about what new motherhood is really like.

1. Let's start at the beginning—breastfeeding is HARD, damnit.

Whoever puts the idea into every young woman's head that you are going to pop out your baby, the doc is going to place him on your chest and he will instinctively wiggle his way up to your engorged teat to effortlessly suckle your glorious momjuice... should be shot.

There may be 1% of the population for which this happens (the blessed, blessed few), but for most of us, the struggle is real. The baby doesn't know what it's doing. You don't know what you're doing. So most of the time you both end up frustrated—he with giving too much effort and probably still feeling hungry, and you with raw nipples and intense feelings of inadequacy. Not to mention you go through this dance every 2-3 hours. And that's from start to start. You are literally just a walking zombie tit those first few weeks. A walking zombie tit that's maybe 30% effective (you never really know!). No one told me that.

Seriously, your ONE job after giving birth is providing nourishment for your baby. Why isn't this easier? What's wrong with you?

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with you. Breastfeeding sucks (pun intended). Sometimes it gets easier, sometimes it doesn't. And it doesn't help that everyone you know will try to make you feel like a Hitler reincarnated if you even entertain the THOUGHT of throwing in the towel, while you're sitting there with your nipples dripping blood and hormones raging. Try to stick with it (I'm glad I did), but if it doesn't work out, don't let anyone make you feel like a bad mom. That's bullshit.

2. Days feel like years

Around week three I had an amazing day where I crushed it as a mom. My son woke up, I fed him, we went on a long walk around the park, played on his activity mat, drank coffee on the porch, had only a couple crying fits, took a nap, fed him again... things were going great. Dad would be home soon and we have had a GREAT day.

Then I looked at the clock and it was 9:15am.

Spending the entire day alone with an infant is like living in the Twilight Zone. You somehow simultaneously have ZERO time to do anything, yet every day feels like an eternity. Don't ask me how this is possible.

And let's address the isolation factor. A lot of first time moms (these days) pluck themselves from the workforce, at least temporarily, to devote their undivided time to raising their new baby (yay maternity leave!). Dad might take a week, maybe two, but then he'll go back to work and it'll be just the two of you. Just. The. Two. Of. You. Newsflash: It's a tough adjustment to go from the constantly socially interactive/mentally challenging work atmosphere to your sole companion being an infant. Add living in Florida, it being July and the heat index way too high to take your baby anywhere during the day to that... it's a recipe for insanity.

3. Moms really do sacrifice EVERYTHING

I'm not just talking about the usual things you hear about—our time, our sleep, our careers, our bodies (which is an UNDERSTATEMENT. Not only are we trying to figure momhood out on zero sleep, our bodies are also trying to heal from insane trauma.), moms of newborns sacrifice basic human rights and functions.

While I've gotten a tiny bit more savvy about how to fit vital human functions in throughout the day, the things I used to think were important now play second fiddle. Eating, going to the bathroom, and basic hygienic tasks have to be squeezed in during rare happy-chill time or while he's asleep (though most of the time in this scenario you'll choose sleep over brushing your teeth. I never thought I'd say that. But I am totally saying that.). Drive-thrus have become my new best friend (which is tough in the South... the only decently healthy one being Panera), because many days the only chance I'll get to eat is if he's happily asleep in his carseat. Sometimes I'll pack my lunch in the morning to be able to take it in the car and eat it while I'm driving later. To no destination.

No one told me that having an infant would mean giving up use of your arms for all other tasks. (*Mom hack: I've learned that breastfeeding time is a great time to knock out small things, just plan ahead and set yourself up).

But the biggest sacrifice? Your identity. You go from being your own person with your own likes, dislike, hobbies and freedom, really, to being "_____'s Mom." Your life is not yours anymore, and that's scary. It's important to try not to completely lose your sense of self, especially in the first few weeks, but it's going to happen to some degree. Some women were "Born to be mothers," but for others it's an adjustment—and that's OK.

So as you scroll through your social media feeds and see all these smiling moms and happy babies, don't feel bad about yourself. You're seeing a fraction of 1% of people's lives. PPD is real. Crying is OK. Motherhood is hard. Motherhood is messy. Motherhood is frustrating.

And as I sit here typing with my son sleeping on my stomach, it's hard for me to imagine anything better.

What’s in a slogan? Make America _______ Again

The moment Lester Holt announced that Donald Trump had won Ohio, my heart sank.

Like most in my chosen community of peers and media (my admitted “Echo Chamber”), my first reaction was, “This can’t be happening.” Then came the anger. Then came the fear. I wondered how many others cried in the shower Wednesday morning before work.

A few days passed and the thought of “President-Elect Trump” continued (and continues) to dominate my thoughts. But recently my cerebrum began to overtake my limbic system. Instead of simply reacting to what happened, I started to ponder how and why it happened. I hope to soon graduate onto what to do next.

But for now, the how and the why.

While the reasons are too many and too complex for a single blog post, the marketer in me had to consider this year’s campaign slogans.

A little over a year ago I moved to Pensacola, Florida. The Panhandle. The Bible Belt. It may as well be a continuation of Southern Alabama. In other words, it’s Red Country.

This election cycle was an interesting time to live in Pensacola. Trump held three rallies here. These rallies were covered by the local news. I watched and wondered what could make people want to vote for Donald Trump. The newscasters asked.

After over a year of news coverage, the two most overwhelmingly popular answers to the question “Why do you support Donald Trump?” were:

1.     Because Hillary’s a crook

2.     Because he’s going to Make America Great Again

Almost none gave an answer regarding policy or platform. The responses were mostly anti-Hillary or a regurgitation of that one vague sentence stitched on so many red hats.

So, what’s in a campaign slogan?

“I’m With Her” was about just that: Her. It was not about the voter. It did not resonate with anyone other than her stalwarts. It lacked the central themes that have been successful in every winning presidential campaign slogan since 1992 (and many before it): Hope and Change.

1992, Bill Clinton: "It's Time to Change America"
1996, Bill Clinton: "Building a Bridge to the Twenty-First Century" 
2000, George W. Bush: “Reformer with Results”
2004, George W. Bush: “A Safer World and a More Hopeful America"
2008, Barack Obama: "Change We Can Believe In” ; “Hope”
2012, Barack Obama: "Forward"

Trump’s slogan, “Make America Great Again”, was the first since Ronald Reagan’s all-too-similar 1980 “Let’s Make America Great Again” to offer not progressive hope, but backward change. It tapped into the frustration of many Americans between the coasts. It strategically used an amorphous word (“Great”) that was interchangeable with whatever synonym an individual wanted it to be. It allowed for personalization—what does “Great” mean to you? That word inspired hope in every embittered individual to make it whatever they wanted it to mean for their country.

And there’s arguably an even more operative word in his slogan: “Again”.

The difference between the 1992-2012 slogans and Trump’s is that the formers looked forward to the progress and advancement of the nation, while Trump’s distinctly tapped into one of the most powerful human emotions: nostalgia. Trump promised to Make America _______ Again. He promised to bring back whatever so many Americans held dear and perceived to have lost.

For those afraid of America’s evolving ethnic and racial demography, it meant Make America White Again.

For those who feel threatened by radical Islam and terrorism, it meant Make America Christian Again.

For those who haven’t felt the economic recovery from the Great Recession, it meant Make America Work Again.

For those afraid they would soon have to give up their guns, it meant Make America Armed Again.

For those who saw their health insurance premiums triple under a forced centralized health insurance system, it meant Make America Self-Determining Again.

For those threatened by marriage equality and the normalization of LGBTQ, it meant Make America Straight Again.

For those whose traditional energy and manufacturing Rust Belt jobs are disappearing, it meant Make America Need My Trade Again.

For those uncomfortable by the continuing empowerment of women and jurisdiction over their own bodies, it meant Make America Misogynistic Again.

Donald Trump sold Americans on the nostalgia of “the good ol’ days.” He tapped into the large part of America—the 2,500 miles or so between coasts—that is scared of social progress and equality, the people who see their worlds disappearing.

Simultaneously living digitally/long-distance in my past liberal world and in Pensacola provided a stark contrast between two very different Americas—the one my mostly progressive friends and family in the Bay Area, LA and Boston perceive, and the one that the Panhandle and the rest of the nation perceive.

As I scroll through my newsfeeds and have conversations with my friends and family on the coasts, I see a subset of the American population in disbelief and disgust that Donald Trump could be elected as Commander-in-Chief of this country. I see an army angry and ready to influence change, in two years and then four.

To this subset, I encourage you to spend some time in Middle America, in Red States. Talk to Trump supporters. Familiarize yourself with their frustrations, their grievances. Ask for their point of view, and don’t push yours onto them. If we want any chance in 2018 and 2020, we need to stop seeing most of the U.S. as “Flyover States” and start considering how they fit into a progressive America, too. Solutions start with understanding. Like it or not, it's their reality. And it's the reality of enough of the nation to elect Donald J. Trump.

Everybody Poops.

Disclaimer: If you consider bathroom humor to be crude, unfunny and/or inappropriate, stop reading now. Also, you should probably unfriend me.

If you (the reader) and I have had even of modicum of depth to our relationship, you know that I'm not one to shy away from talking about poop. My poop, your poop, dog poop, the unflushed poop in the locker room toilet... the list goes on. It's a major part of my day and yours too, even if you don't want to admit it. 

Pooping is an essential part of life that for reasons beyond my comprehension has been denounced as inappropriate for civil conversation. But it's one of the few things every single person on the planet has in common (except maybe the anusless contributing writers at The New Yorker), and that's pretty darn special. Still not convinced? What if I told you there's an immortal epic in the English Literary Canon that proves it so? You can find it in most major bookstores; it's called Everybody Poops by literary genius Taro Gomi.

I'd like to take a moment write about some of the more notable poops that make an appearance in all of our lives from time to time:

The Phantom Poop

There you are, sitting on the toilet waiting in anxious anticipation for your bowels to move, and eureka--mission accomplished. But then you go to wipe and, inexplicably, the paper's as snow-white as a cartoon baby lamb. It cannot be so. You stand up to visually admire your hard-fought-for poop in all its glory but lo and behold, there's no trace of even a fecal molecule in the toilet. Perfect anus-to-toilet hole positioning has made this one a direct shot to depths unknown. This, my friends, is The Phantom Poop. Classified in the "unsatisfying" genus, The Phantom Poop robs from you any sense of achievement and validation defecation usually brings. It leaves you unsettled. You know you pooped. You felt the evacuation. Yet, nothing. It makes you question your sanity.

Hidden Bonus: After a true Phantom Poop, you don't have to flush! At least you can reap satisfaction from saving water, you hippie conservationist, you.

The Defies the Laws of Physics Poop

This one inspires utter awe and amazement. Most of us took geometry in high school, and all of us learned about shapes in earlier grades. We all know our rectums are more or less cylindrical, which lead in a straight line to a circular anus before their contents see daylight. Therefore, most of our poops are formed as straight lines. But sometimes, in the aftermath, we look down into the porcelain throne and gasp when we see an unnatural, though impressive, shape. Introducing: The Defies the Laws of Physics Poop. These are your right-angle poops, your corkscrew poops, your (this truly happened to me the week before the 2011 Cal Soccer Alumni Game) BIG C poop. 'Twas a perfect C. (Go bears). These are the poops you take photos of and send to your friends, the ones you can't wait to brag about.

The Anaconda Poop

Also known as the "How Did THAT Come Out of Me Poop," this one brings into question the sheer length and girth of your innards. This is the poop you imagine only comes out of 6'6, 345 lb Russian men. It can take various forms, from disappearing God-knows-how-far down the hole and reaching up to breach the water, to encircling the entire circumference of the bowl at least once--like a brown snake ready to strike. The Anaconda Poop is awe-inspiring in its own rite, as you're surprised every time that your waste pipes can contain that much matter without causing you discomfort, let alone produce something of that size that can externally hold its shape postpoopartum (see what I did there?).

The Lincoln Logs Poop

A first cousin of The Anaconda Poop, The Lincoln Logs Poop is also impressive in terms of size, but its real noteworthiness is derived from its manufacturing. Instead of keeping its length in tact, this poop somehow knows at what points to pinch itself off and restart in exact position to its forebears. The Lincoln Logs Poop is an architectural masterpiece, solely orchestrated by a seemingly unintelligent anus, laying down the pinched parts like a master lumberjack lining up cut logs to build a beautiful cabin. 

The Part One Poop

Another poop in the "unsatisfying" genus, this little rascal leaves you wanting--nay, needing--more. After you expel The Part One Poop, you know that's not the end of it. The fat lady hath not sung and you feel incomplete. You know in your heart of hearts there's more in there--The Part Two Poop and beyond. Its uncertain nature leaves you feeling vulnerable and insecure. How can you go on with your day with the uneasy feeling of that incomplete poop in the later stages of your intestines, poised to release at any spontaneous moment (or even worse, remain there). The Part One Poop is most unpleasant.

The Sheer Perfection Poop

This is the poop that can make your entire day, and sometimes week. The Sheer Perfection Poop happens when a heavenly choir of angels descends from the sky to your bathroom, occupies your intestines and ever-so-sweetly sings an impeccable G chord to coax a flawless fecal specimen into your toilet. We all dream of such a poop, and wish it would grace us with its presence less sporadically. The Sheer Perfection Poop is like the orgasm of the pooping world, releasing endorphin-y shivers throughout your entire body and making you feel like you have the power to conquer the universe. One does not quickly forget the experience of The Sheer Perfection Poop, as its aura lingers around you the entire day, like a blessed halo spreading its joy into everything you do and everyone you interact with. Nothing can spoil a day that begins with The Sheer Perfection Poop.


Got any poops you'd like to share? I'd love to hear about them!

A Long December

"A long December and there's reason to believe, maybe this year will be better than the last." -Counting Crows

A Long December came on my ever-shuffling iPod as I drove away from a friend's house this afternoon, befittingly because I had just told her that writing more blog posts was one of my New Year's Intentions. Even more appropriate because I had already decided what I was going to write about: Hope and New Year's Intentions.

Five years ago, I wrote this: You Say You Want a ReSolution?

With all the learned lessons, shifted mindsets and reality checks I've undergone in the last five years, my outlook on this subject has taken a complete 180. Well, maybe more like a 170; I did write five years ago that I'm all for anyone trying to better themselves, any time of year. And I still believe that.

I suppose five years ago life was easier and less complicated. I was a grad student in Boston, whose life until that point had been very happy-go-lucky, and whose remaining years were full of nothing but promise. I hadn't developed a sense of empathy yet, and that blinded me to a lot of ways people felt treated by the world. I hadn't realized that as you get older, and life starts knocking you around a bit, sometimes you need a finite marker to hit a reset button and hope for something better. And a new year seems like a good time to do just that.

Without going into too much detail, 2015 was the worst year of my life until this point (still not saying much, I've had a very charmed life). But the last year was extremely trying nonetheless; I was shaken to my core. So, for the first time in my 27 years, I was really looking forward to the year being over, and the promise of 2016 for a clean slate. I made my New Year's Intentions and I had hope.

You've probably noticed by this point that I don't use the words "resolution" or "resolutions", I call them New Year's "Intentions." I believe the word "resolution" is too, well, resolute. It suggests that you must resolve to do this thing, and if you mess up even once, you've failed. And often times when you believe you've failed at something, you give it up; it becomes a lost cause. 

"Intention" takes that pressure off. It doesn't carry the same connotation of finality. You can fail over and over again at an intention, and it will remain just that: something you intend to do. So, I don't have New Year's Resolutions, I have New Year's Intentions. And even if I fail over and over at them throughout the year, I will still intend to accomplish them until December 31.

A new year brings hope, and in 2015 I personally learned how powerful hope is. Hope is the only thing that gets many out of bed in the morning, the only thing that convinces those who are suffering to hold on for another hour, another day, another month... It will get better. At its core, that's what hope is: The belief that it will get better. Even the most stalwart atheist can't argue with 1 Corinthians 13:13, naming the most powerful trinity of forces in a human being: Faith, Hope and Love. 

The greatest may be Love, but Faith and Hope are not far behind.

Here's to hoping in 2016.

A Thanksgiving Reality Check

The following post was an email I got from my mom last week. She volunteers at a local food bank. It gave me all the feels, so I thought I'd share--


Sometimes my days at the food bank are very humbling. 

All of our clients who come in for food have stories, but when people pass them on the streets, most just walk a little faster and turn away to avoid them. When they come into the food bank week after week, a face in the crowd becomes a real person-- with a name and a story. Many will open up to you, and you get to know what some of them are going through and how one tiny little act of kindness can make their day.

Janice lives in her car. She ALWAYS politely asks me if she can use the bathroom to wash up, and she always asks how I'm doing.

Frank sits on a bench out in front and immediately eats what we give him, because he's so hungry. He has no plate-- just a plastic fork and a can of cold soup or beans. Yet he smiles at me every time I say, "How are you, Frank?" 

Darrell stands by the door and when we have items that people don't want from their carts, he asks if he can please have them. I always give him whatever he wants, I don't care if it's against the rules.

Barbara hides in the bushes and waits until the place clears out before she comes in for her food. She is very nervous and afraid of men, and always asks for extra soap. I think she might have been sexually abused.

Every week one of us goes in the back warehouse and sneaks Sam an extra loaf of "wheat bread" because he likes it so much. Big deal, it's stale anyway. He has diabetes and can barely walk on his swollen feet.

Charlie always asks if we have any sardines. We always make sure we have a stack of crackers to give him, too.

Victor loves peaches IN HEAVY SYRUP, so one of us buys a can of those for him every week.

Charlene is SO happy when she gets six eggs. We don't always have enough cartons, and that's why I collect them from everyone I know. Stores donate the eggs in cartons with broken eggs in them; we sort out the good eggs and need clean cartons to put them in so we can give them to people.

Debbie has to work swing shift in a vitamin factory because her husband lost his job after 22 years as a chef at a country club. She stinks like fish oil and apologizes. They have six kids. She barely makes it before we close, so I stay a little later for her so she can get her food. If the traffic is bad, she will miss the distribution time if I don't.

Sometimes, if it's a week they aren't supposed to get meat, they will cry. (Only one week a month is a meat week for each family.)

And sometimes the new clients cry when they see how much food we're giving them. They will say, "ALL OF THIS IS FOR ME?! REALLY?!"

I am told "God Bless You" 50 times a day.

This stuff goes on every time I work there.

But yesterday, a lady named Shirley came in. She's kind of latched onto me for a friendly ear. She's a white woman, about 45 if I were to guess her age. She has kids, and she has a husband. Someone from the food bank handed her a paper to sign in front of me. She sold her car to someone there for $375. I was just making small talk with her as I helped her out with her food, and I asked her how her Halloween was. She said, "It wasn't good. I didn't have the money to buy any candy this year, so I turned off my lights and just peeked out my window at the kids. I just wasn't able to buy any candy for them."

Shirley said they have to be out of their house in 17 days. They had to sell their house, they can't afford to keep it; it's in Sierra Madre. They're taking their equity and renting a place half the size. Her husband lost his job after 15 years, even though he got commendations for good sales. He was so embarrassed by it that he couldn't even tell her. Someone's brother in his company needed a job, so they let her husband go. Shirley had been planning an 80th birthday party for her mom when it happened. She said she spent $600 on the party, not knowing how much they would need that money. She told me, "I wish he would have told me. I spent money we needed. I just didn't know." 

One day, she found a movie ticket stub in her husband's pocket. It was for a day he was supposed to be working. She thought he was having an affair, but he wasn't. He just couldn't bring himself to tell her he lost his job when she was happily planning her mom's party.  

Shirley's rationing their remaining money until they move. She told me she can't afford to go to the grocery store. The ONLY way they eat is the food the food bank gives them. One son needs surgery and he was in so much pain they had to go on the husband's COBRA for a month or two so he could be treated immediately-- Medi-Cal takes too long to get processed. So that's more money they have to spend.  

After she told me all of this, she said, "But you know, I see other people inside this place that are in much worse shape than I am, so I am thankful that we will still have a roof over our heads. A lot of these people don't."

Then she said, "I will see you next week because if I don't come here, we'll have nothing to eat." And she left.

It kind of just leaves you speechless sometimes.  And very thankful.

Thank you for being a friend

Relationships are the foundation of life (I know half of you wisenheimers reading this just thought, "No, it's water!" or "No, it's carbon!". Chill out, you're right too). Relationships determine not only how you interact with other living beings, but with every tangible object and abstract idea in existence. There are the relationships you have with others—your spouse or lover, your parents, your friends, your coworkers, your God etc.—and there are the less obvious relationships about which you seldom think; with nature, food, politics, sirens, the plot to Shawshank Redemption, your car, confidence, the ground upon which you walk and the air you breathe. Your entire being is in relation to everything.

So when anyone asks what in life is most important to me, the answer is obvious: Relationships.

Since the day I turned eighteen, I've never lived in any one city for more than four years. Berkeley, Boston and San Diego were home for short periods of time, and Pensacola is it for the next few years—until it's time to pack up and move on once again. Transience isn't rare for someone my age in today's culture. But when it comes to relationships, with each move and with each mile and with each passing day comes the separation and imminent dissolution of one of the most important forms a relationship can take: Friendships. And then comes the need to make new ones.

Remember when you were in elementary school and making a friend was literally as easy as walking up to anyone on the playground and saying, "Will you be my friend?" Boom. That was that. Friend made. You played with them for the rest of recess, sat with them at lunch, got their phone number and called them on the weekend to see if they wanted to come over and play. There were no self-constructed emotional walls, no social anxiety, no pride fueled by the fear of rejection... all of which lead to inaction, and opportunities missed.

Even through college making friends was pretty much that easy (alcohol helped, too, by that point). You were surrounded by thousands of like-aged and like-minded people in the same phase of life in one concentrated area; you were in the trenches together, spurring the formation of inevitable comraderies.

Then we became adults, and making new friends got hard.

With every move and every year that ticks off the calendar, sparking new friendships gets exponentially more difficult. I'm not talking about acquaintances—those are easy. I can be friendly with just about anyone. I'm talking about deep, meaningful friendships.

I half-joked with my best friend (since age 5) before moving to Pensacola this summer that I was going to revert back to my elementary school mindset and just ask people, "Will you be my friend?" To me, that's the hardest part about moving, having to downgrade great friendships to random texts and monthly-ish phone calls. With each new move, you have to start from scratch in trying to find awesome people to reattain invaluable, first-degree, in-person friendships. And even if you do meet someone with that potential, you can't just ask "Will you be my friend?", because now you're an adult, and adults don't do that. Adults are guarded. Adults have developed a fear of rejection. Adults are paralyzed by pride. Adults are too busy with their own, already-established lives. Other adults don't have time for new friends. These are the thoughts that creep into our minds now. And it sucks. Because I, for one, would love if another adult asked me to be their friend.

So why can't most of us do that?

I guess the reason for this blog post (other than the fact that I will find any excuse to sneak a Golden Girls allusion into something) is that lately I've been reflecting a lot on all the great friendships I've made throughout the years, and am being impatient about making more where I am now. Relationships are the most important thing to me, and currently there is a gaping lack of in-person friendships. I haven't yet mentioned that they always come along: these deep, meaningful friendships. Eventually. And I may have even begun the process of making a few in my current hometown. But the time I spend waiting for them to develop seems indefinite.

Anyway, to all in my past, present, and future—Thank you for being a friend.

Sorry, had to.