I eat a lot of junk food. Like, even with the anonymity of the Internet, I don’t wish to share now many shiny food wrappers are in my weekly garbage.
And it is compulsive. I’ve had more “last hurrahs” with food than smokers have “last cigarettes”.
But last night, it hit me, as I gazed at my bowl of chips, THIS STUFF WILL KILL ME.
And it hit me like a ton of bricks. So I know it won’t be easy, but I also don’t think it will be soon before I forget…that stuff is going to kill me if I don’t stop.
So jealous of YA writers because no matter what embarrassing Youtube video they’re caught watching, they can just cry “research!” and be done with it.
Corey’s excellent single father parenting nearly brings a tear to my eye, even when I’m equidistant from menstrual events.
(via thegroveofsycamore)
There’s something about a cloudless blue winter sky that holds my attention. The sun beats down and glares off an icy road, offering no real warmth- more of a spotlight than a heat lamp. I never realize how many tiny, intricate branches sum up to a leafy tree until I’m viewing the winter sky through their tangle of naked fingers. And the sky is very nearly all one shade, growing paler only near the horizons. It is precisely painted to the very tips of the mountains and vaults over the city skyline.
Perhaps it is just that, that it holds my attention. That it calls to me to recognize its magnificence. When all spring I glared at the grey clouds, and all summer I ignored it in favour of the sights in front of me, and all fall I watched the ground coated in reds and oranges. The winter sky is simple and cool and apparently detached. It calls to me, and I listen. I notice and appreciate our air and our lungs and our life.
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…and I’m all like, I thought we had something! Didn’t we all agree we don’t have lives? Guys??? Do you secretly have lives?
When people treat doing laundry as if it is a chore.
You sort it. Like a kindergarten student.
It goes in a machine, and then into another machine.
And during this interlude, you may do whatever else you like.
You fold it (optional).
"Yes, you’re going to write some sketches that you love and are proud of forever–your golden nuggets. But you’re also going to write some real shit nuggets. And unfortunately, sometimes the shit nuggets will make it onto the air. You can’t worry about it. As long as you know the difference, you can go back to panning for gold on Monday." -Tina Fey, Bossypants
