So, it's four o'clock in the morning and I'm awake and chipper like a very awake and chipper thing for the first time in like. Months. MONTHS, YOU GUYS.
Don't get me wrong; I wake up at 5 every morning, Monday through Friday, and curl my hair. I do that thing with my eye makeup that makes me look both alert and alluring, (or at least according to the Youtube instructional videos I've watched. Shut up.) And 9 days out of ten, I do so generally content and ready for the day, albeit a little groggy.
But today. TODAY. I couldn't sleep anymore because I was so excited to have this Sunday happen. Nothing particularly wonderful is going to occur. I'm going to add to a multi-media piece that's been in the works for awhile. I might watch a little Doctor Who, probably cycle for awhile. And the real kicker is that I probably could not be more thrilled about it, (unless there was the addition of really adorable sloths or something).
ANYways. If the last few weeks have shown me anything, it's how contagious people can be. I know that contagious usually connotes something negatively catching, like a cold, but I mean it in the very best way possible.
Last Wednesday, I did go to that networking event for creatives. It's also worth noting that it's stupidly hard to say things like "networking events" without feeling like a total skeeze.
There was free pizza, gin and tonics, and raffles for cool prizes from small local businesses. But most importantly, there was so much passion in that room. Each and every person was there because they wanted to be. A hundred men and women gathered on a three-degree January night because they are so completely charged about what they do that sharing it with others is the only viable option.
There was this compelling drive that hung over the room, and something just simply clicked in me. I realized it's okay to say things like, "I work in recruiting, but I'm also a film maker," because so many others were saying them, too. While there was definitely a core group of people who have crafted their careers around matchmaking, or online game design, or macro flower photography, I now know people who are marketing consultants and central players in non-profits for entrepreneurs, or women who work in leasing and are talented painters.
Before, it never felt right to talk about my day job and then tack something else on the side. But, as many of you may know, the last year has clearly demonstrated that "day jobs" do not define me; who I am defines me. Loving something outside of work isn't terrible, and doesn't indicate that I'm unsatisfied with my current career choice or incapable of corporate success. It just means that I can be something slightly different by day than I am at night. Like a super hero, except I can't do that jump-and-sail-glamorously-to-the-side thing that comic book women seem so into.
This small and important alteration in my thinking prompted me to finally, FINALLY, finish my vanity site. It's basically a central hub for everything I love doing. This is my second attempt in the last year because the first go-around left me feeling too embarrassed about shamelessly showcasing myself. But if it makes me uncomfortable and doesn't involves high explosives or poison, I'm willing to bet I need to do it.
And with that. Behold. www.jamanuszak.com. If you get a chance, take a gander. Because, oh, hi. I'm Jessica. I'm a creative. I work in finance, but I'm also a novelist, a web designer, and an ebook consultant. And I'm so very excited to tell you all about it.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Sunday, January 6, 2013
anxiety, too much information, and kicking 2013 in the gonads
I have this thing where I can't fall asleep on my back because I'm convinced that resting peacefully in a perfect lower-me-into-a-coffin position means I'll die. Surely, it's just too convenient for me not to. On the rare occasion when I do decide it's okay to tempt fate, I shove my hands down my pants because certainly, certainly, the Universe couldn't be cruel enough to strike a girl dead with her hands down her pants. Can it?
Before bed, I once had a guy look over and ask why my fingers were shoved in my underwear like a creep-o extraordinaire. We'd made a platonic pact, and here I was putting half my arm where the sun don't shine.
"I won't die in my sleep with my hands down my pants," I explained simply, years of the fear-induced recording embedded like gospel.
He blinked a couple times. "If you're going to die, you're going to die, and then the paramedics will find you with your hands down your pants."
I'm not sure if you guys know this, but being awesome is pretty fucking terrifying. There are so many things I consciously want to do. I can think about them, and get excited, but then when it comes time to do it, I just freak the fuck out. There's no poetic way to put it; it just is what it is. I can't pinpoint exactly when I became so scared of everything: driving on the highway, dying my hair a noticeable color, walking through malls on my own. But I have become that terrified person. And I hate it.
On an intellectual level, I can acknowledge how absolutely trivial and goofy those things sound. However, I still get physically terrified, causing me to avoid uncomfortable situations at nearly ALL COSTS. My pulse quickens and there's a tightness in my chest that I always think means I'm having a heart attack but actually means that I've forgotten to breathe upon merging into traffic from an on-ramp. Of course, the OH-MY-GOD-WHY-AM-I-HAVING-A-HEART-ATTACK feeling doesn't do much to dispel the anxiety, either. That's mostly when the crying starts.
Ultimately, the overwhelming, gut-wrenching fear has been such a huge part of my life for so long that I've forgotten about the version of me who isn't scared of everything. The version who performed onstage, single-handedly directed plays in college, loved going to movies alone, dyed her hair hot pink, laughed too loudly at restaurants, and generally lived.
The other day, Shmoyfriend said he really wanted to go to the aquarium, then sheepishly added that he knows I don't like it.
"I don't?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"You said the giant room with the sharks makes you feel uneasy," he replied, an automatic response to years of me hedging around things that make my pulse race just a little too fast.
And then it hit me. My anxiety has become such a huge presence in my life that not only do I avoid situations that make me uncomfortable, but other people have to steer us around adventures to avoid a bout of anxiousness surrounding things that, logically, pose no actual threat.
When he articulated it so plainly, it highlighted just how wastefully I've been living. Or not living, actually. I mean, I love the aquarium. I'm going to go to the fucking aquarium. By giving myself permission to avoid the things that may make me feel uneasy, I've been giving them power over who I am and what I do. And to me, that seems pretty stinkin' stupid.
So now, I'm allowing myself to be brave. Once a month, I'm going to do at least one thing that makes me oh-so-very panicky in the hopes the huge wall of hyperbolic anxiety will finally let me through.
I'm not entirely sure what all of these will be yet. I'll have to see where the biggest sources of my anxiety rest, and move forward from there, systematically isolating and tackling them. However, I do know that for January I'll be going to a mixer for creative types where I'll know almost no one. I'll be presenting myself as a member of their tribe, truly branding myself as a person with something worthwhile to give, and to share, and to offer. This is a huge step. I'm going to come out of the safe little shadowy boxes I've so artfully crammed myself into, and moreover, I'm going to come out of them in new lipstick.
After nearly 24 years of dealing with this bullshit, I'm ready to lace up my tennis shoes, slam my apartment door behind me, and kick Fear in the nards. 2013, bitches.
UPDATE:
I went to the aquarium!
 |
| Lumpfish. True story. |
 |
| [Insert Jaws theme song.] |
 |
| "Hairy Otter" is a pretty decent name for vagina. Just sayin'. |
Monday, December 31, 2012
dramatic italicising, resolutions, and the unlikely title of my comic book
Ah, New Year's Eve. Whenever a new year comes and goes, I'm reminded (and almost unbearably so) of The Lion King, Simba held poignantly up into the sky, the expanse of majestic land sprawling beneath him. Circle of life, blah blah, all that. Mostly, it just really makes me want a baby lion.
It's no mystery that the start of a new year is all about resolutions. Tomorrow, people will start running, start organizing, start packing lunches. But tomorrow, I'm going to stop. 2013 is my Year of the No, which could also totally be a subtitle of a comic book featuring yours truly, but instead will be my personal brand of the New Year's Resolution (dun dun dunnn).
Basically, I'm a yes person. I agree to stuff almost constantly that I have absolutely no interest in doing. As a result, I find myself cancelling often, hawing around with a vague and relentless sense of guilt that's just heavy enough to make me feel like a worse version of myself than I was the day before. Why do I do this?
Bluntly put, I want to please everyone. I want every single person on the entire planet to like me, and as a result, I'm not making anyone truly happy, not even myself, and that's where it all begins, yeah?
And thus, today begins the momentous occasion of No. I'm taking all of that energy I've used coming up with lame excuses, fending off nagging guilt, and scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel for some semblance of inspiration and investing it all back into myself. Because I can't do everything, but I can sure as heck delegate where the bits and pieces of myself are going.
Saying no to bullshit commitments means I'm giving myself permission to say yes to so many other things: my writing, my metal sculpting, and my relationship with the sexy BAMF known as my shmoyfriend. Saying no let's me say yes to new friends, to spending more time with old friends, and to continue excitedly in the pursuit of figuring out exactly what it is that makes me furiously happy.
I'm not waiting until January first to put this plan into action because I don't want to. For the first time in my entire life, I'm confident enough to know without a doubt that I'm worth my own time. I'm worth an hour in my favorite coffee house to write a new chapter. I'm worth a nap in the sun with my cat. And most importantly, I'm worth the amount of bravery it takes to deliver a polite but firm, No. No fucking thank you.
It's no mystery that the start of a new year is all about resolutions. Tomorrow, people will start running, start organizing, start packing lunches. But tomorrow, I'm going to stop. 2013 is my Year of the No, which could also totally be a subtitle of a comic book featuring yours truly, but instead will be my personal brand of the New Year's Resolution (dun dun dunnn).
Basically, I'm a yes person. I agree to stuff almost constantly that I have absolutely no interest in doing. As a result, I find myself cancelling often, hawing around with a vague and relentless sense of guilt that's just heavy enough to make me feel like a worse version of myself than I was the day before. Why do I do this?
Bluntly put, I want to please everyone. I want every single person on the entire planet to like me, and as a result, I'm not making anyone truly happy, not even myself, and that's where it all begins, yeah?
And thus, today begins the momentous occasion of No. I'm taking all of that energy I've used coming up with lame excuses, fending off nagging guilt, and scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel for some semblance of inspiration and investing it all back into myself. Because I can't do everything, but I can sure as heck delegate where the bits and pieces of myself are going.
Saying no to bullshit commitments means I'm giving myself permission to say yes to so many other things: my writing, my metal sculpting, and my relationship with the sexy BAMF known as my shmoyfriend. Saying no let's me say yes to new friends, to spending more time with old friends, and to continue excitedly in the pursuit of figuring out exactly what it is that makes me furiously happy.
I'm not waiting until January first to put this plan into action because I don't want to. For the first time in my entire life, I'm confident enough to know without a doubt that I'm worth my own time. I'm worth an hour in my favorite coffee house to write a new chapter. I'm worth a nap in the sun with my cat. And most importantly, I'm worth the amount of bravery it takes to deliver a polite but firm, No. No fucking thank you.
Monday, November 26, 2012
records, new jobs, and that time I talked about poop for eight years
Today officially marks another new beginning at another new job. Seeing as I've now truly moved on from my past position as a receptionist at a fancy-pants interior design hub, it feels necessary to reflect back upon the experience.
And the main lesson I've learned, the truth which I know to be self-evident, and other Declaration of Independence-y things, is that everybody poops.
I know this isn't profound. Heck, there's even a book about it, (that's currently sold out on Amazon). I say this not as a source of personal comfort, but rather as a big ol' HEY YOU! YES, YOU. I KNOW YOU JUST SHIT EVERYWHERE IN THAT BATHROOM.
As a receptionist, the exhaustive list of my duties consisted of reading magazines, answering the occasional phone call, smiling in a way that made me want to punch a bitch, and paying way too much attention to anyone and everyone who dared pass by the marble-topped desk polished to a perfect sheen.
Ultimately, it never ceased to amaze me how different people handled the curious situation of walking by me to get to the restroom.
The C.O.O.? She'd prance down the stairs in her heels, comment on whatever wardrobe choice I'd made half-asleep the hour before, and declare that she needed to brush her teeth after her morning cup of coffee and nutritiously responsible breakfast.
She disappeared daily into that bathroom for fifteen minutes minimum. How many teeth does she have?! Also, I'm the one who ordered her food each morning, and that nutritiously responsible breakfast she was always so anxious for? It was a bran muffin. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE DO TO YOUR INSIDES?! Because I sure do. So, unless she was shoving a toothbrush in her...actually, nevermind. You get it. It's also worth noting that I just actively resisted saying something about "little bleached assholes," because it looks SO creepy in print, and also makes it seem like I'm into butt sex. Not that there's anything wrong...JUST NEVERMIND.
The guy from upstairs whose named I never learned? He'd come by once and make eye contact, smile, ask me how I was, and head into that little wooden door separating the wide world of anal leakage from the $40,000 coffee tables of the show rooms. The second time, he'd make eye contact and smile, sometimes ask me how I was again, for good measure. The third time, he'd just make eye contact and smile. By the EIGHTEENTH TIME IN FIVE HOURS (that's not hyperbole, you guys), he'd do this sort of scuttle thing through the lobby, staring intently at the bathroom door.
The intensity of his focus on that door made me think that he either felt really awkward about how often he had to go, or he had some sort of illness that gave him exponentially-worsening diarrhea as the day progressed, transitioning from a little morning deuce to a violent shit volcano providing some sort of propulsive lift off the toilet seat. The bathroom just wasn't a nice porcelain place to sit down, but the end of The Quest Not to Shit His Pants Among Colleagues. Also, if someone makes a movie of that quest, I want in the credits.
The last, and probably greatest teacher during my experience, was a woman who graced me with her presence not two weeks ago. The conversation went as follows.
Woman: You guys need to do something about that bathroom. There is...mess...everywhere. This is supposed to be a quality experience for clients, and I do not feel valued or emotionally elevated.
Me: I apologize, ma'am. Let me call maintenance and we'll get this resolved.
[Enter maintenance stage left.]
Maintenance: What's the problem?
Woman: Someone made a disgusting mess in the restroom.
Maintenance: I just cleaned that bathroom five minutes ago. How many people have used it?
Me: Just one.
Maintenance: Huh. Well, I'll go check it out. You're sure it was like that before you went in?
Woman: What are you suggesting?
Maintenance: That if I cleaned it, and you're the only person to have used it, then the mess is from you.
Woman: [Does flustery things.]
Maintenance: I'll take a look. Maybe a pipe burst or something.
Woman's husband: Honey, you did have Mexican last night.
Maintenance: [Yelling from bathroom.] OH! OH, GOD! IT'S ALL OVER THE FLOOR. AND THE WALL?!
Woman: [Exists swiftly.]
It just baffles me that she could have easily walked away, maybe called in an anonymous tip or made a casual, "It's getting kind of messy in there" statement on her way out. But instead, she chose to throw a fit about a shit storm she brewed. She went out of her way to remove any possible blame from herself, ultimately making one very seasoned and very large maintenance man dry-heave into the drinking fountain. She had Mexican food, indeed.
I'm not saying that everyone should openly announce their bowel movements. You don't need to shout from the rooftop that you're about to go lay down a big one (which sort of sounds like you're recording an album and could totally be awesome new slang for pooping, FYI), but FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, don't waste your energy trying to disguise the fact that the stuff you put in your body FOR SURVIVAL comes back out again. Everybody poops, ya'll. Well, except for me. Obviously. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go brush my asshole.
And the main lesson I've learned, the truth which I know to be self-evident, and other Declaration of Independence-y things, is that everybody poops.
I know this isn't profound. Heck, there's even a book about it, (that's currently sold out on Amazon). I say this not as a source of personal comfort, but rather as a big ol' HEY YOU! YES, YOU. I KNOW YOU JUST SHIT EVERYWHERE IN THAT BATHROOM.
As a receptionist, the exhaustive list of my duties consisted of reading magazines, answering the occasional phone call, smiling in a way that made me want to punch a bitch, and paying way too much attention to anyone and everyone who dared pass by the marble-topped desk polished to a perfect sheen.
Ultimately, it never ceased to amaze me how different people handled the curious situation of walking by me to get to the restroom.
The C.O.O.? She'd prance down the stairs in her heels, comment on whatever wardrobe choice I'd made half-asleep the hour before, and declare that she needed to brush her teeth after her morning cup of coffee and nutritiously responsible breakfast.
She disappeared daily into that bathroom for fifteen minutes minimum. How many teeth does she have?! Also, I'm the one who ordered her food each morning, and that nutritiously responsible breakfast she was always so anxious for? It was a bran muffin. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE DO TO YOUR INSIDES?! Because I sure do. So, unless she was shoving a toothbrush in her...actually, nevermind. You get it. It's also worth noting that I just actively resisted saying something about "little bleached assholes," because it looks SO creepy in print, and also makes it seem like I'm into butt sex. Not that there's anything wrong...JUST NEVERMIND.
The guy from upstairs whose named I never learned? He'd come by once and make eye contact, smile, ask me how I was, and head into that little wooden door separating the wide world of anal leakage from the $40,000 coffee tables of the show rooms. The second time, he'd make eye contact and smile, sometimes ask me how I was again, for good measure. The third time, he'd just make eye contact and smile. By the EIGHTEENTH TIME IN FIVE HOURS (that's not hyperbole, you guys), he'd do this sort of scuttle thing through the lobby, staring intently at the bathroom door.
The intensity of his focus on that door made me think that he either felt really awkward about how often he had to go, or he had some sort of illness that gave him exponentially-worsening diarrhea as the day progressed, transitioning from a little morning deuce to a violent shit volcano providing some sort of propulsive lift off the toilet seat. The bathroom just wasn't a nice porcelain place to sit down, but the end of The Quest Not to Shit His Pants Among Colleagues. Also, if someone makes a movie of that quest, I want in the credits.
The last, and probably greatest teacher during my experience, was a woman who graced me with her presence not two weeks ago. The conversation went as follows.
Woman: You guys need to do something about that bathroom. There is...mess...everywhere. This is supposed to be a quality experience for clients, and I do not feel valued or emotionally elevated.
Me: I apologize, ma'am. Let me call maintenance and we'll get this resolved.
[Enter maintenance stage left.]
Maintenance: What's the problem?
Woman: Someone made a disgusting mess in the restroom.
Maintenance: I just cleaned that bathroom five minutes ago. How many people have used it?
Me: Just one.
Maintenance: Huh. Well, I'll go check it out. You're sure it was like that before you went in?
Woman: What are you suggesting?
Maintenance: That if I cleaned it, and you're the only person to have used it, then the mess is from you.
Woman: [Does flustery things.]
Maintenance: I'll take a look. Maybe a pipe burst or something.
Woman's husband: Honey, you did have Mexican last night.
Maintenance: [Yelling from bathroom.] OH! OH, GOD! IT'S ALL OVER THE FLOOR. AND THE WALL?!
Woman: [Exists swiftly.]
It just baffles me that she could have easily walked away, maybe called in an anonymous tip or made a casual, "It's getting kind of messy in there" statement on her way out. But instead, she chose to throw a fit about a shit storm she brewed. She went out of her way to remove any possible blame from herself, ultimately making one very seasoned and very large maintenance man dry-heave into the drinking fountain. She had Mexican food, indeed.
I'm not saying that everyone should openly announce their bowel movements. You don't need to shout from the rooftop that you're about to go lay down a big one (which sort of sounds like you're recording an album and could totally be awesome new slang for pooping, FYI), but FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, don't waste your energy trying to disguise the fact that the stuff you put in your body FOR SURVIVAL comes back out again. Everybody poops, ya'll. Well, except for me. Obviously. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go brush my asshole.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
life lessons, melodramatic introspection, and a let's-be-honest pep talk
Right now, I'm sitting in a purple brick building drinking caramel apple cider and waiting for a friend to find out if she's won a bid on a house. A gorgeous house. Do people win bids? I don't know much about housing. But I digress.
Last night, as I drank cinnamon whiskey, watching lame movies via instant streaming on my tiny TV, and getting so caught up in crafting that I finally crawled into bed exhausted and exhilarated as the sun rose, I can't help but think that I am finally becoming the person I was meant to be. I try not to be too floofy (totally a word), about The Uuuuuuuniverse taking care of me, blah blah, but I can say with startling clarity that the last few months of fucking shit up has been leading to this glorious, abnormally-warm November day where I'm genuinely and furiously happy.
As most of you probably know, the last year (AN ENTIRE MOTHERLOVING YEAR HAS PASSED) has been an adventure for me of ginormous proportions. That's hyperbole, and makes it sound like I've been on a hobbit-like journey, when in reality I've just cried a lot, binge drank, and bought an obscene amount of ZzzQuil to cope with the little asshole known as insomnia. Mostly, I've just been overwhelmingly underwhelmed by cubicles, asshats, and the way my shoulders knot up beneath my ears in the way that makes me feel like if I don't GET OUT RIGHT FUCKING NOW I WILL DIE. I think they call that anxiety, but I call it getting so upset I dry heave out my car window on the way to terrible jobs.
The answer to this problem was that I did get out. I got out over and over again, leaving behind jobs that were more welcome-to-the-dark-side-you-douchecanoe than you're-doing-something-good-for-society. And I felt guilty. Every single time, my anxiety seamlessly became this amorphous blob, fluctuating rapidly and unexpectedly between crippling fear, uncertainty, and a dirty conscience.
But something has changed. Me, mostly. I've learned that I'm the most important thing in my life. I've learned that if I need to wander around Hobby Lobby for three hours until I can calm my racing pulse, (and impulsively decide that I need to learn the fine art of wood burning), that's okay. Leaving meaningless jobs where I was nothing more than an anonymous zit on the ass of corporate business is okay. Eating apples and Nutella for four days straight is okay. I'm okay.
Is my depression magically cured? Absolutely not, but I'm on new meds, (oh, HAI, I take meds), and found a therapist I like. Do I have my dream job? No, my dream job is being a professional chocolate tester and also napper where the uniform is a flying squirrel onesie. But I do have a fulfilling position at a local school district where I matter. Did I wake up today and shit glitter in regards to the sheer wonderment of such a bright and shiny and magical day?! Unfortunately not, but that's probably okay since I've hypothesized the tiny glass shards within the glitter would probably make a messy exit. BLOODY BUTT MASSACRE 2012.
But I did wake up and brush my teeth, put on a cute sweater and leave the house. Progress.
I don't want to be all, seize the day because every day we're moving one day closer to death, but YOU GUYS. SEIZE THE DAY BECAUSE EVERY DAY WE'VE MOVING ONE DAY CLOSER TO DEATH.
If this last year has taught me anything, it's to make time for what you love, to make time to live, whether that be knitting mittens, collecting coins, painting abstracts, or alphabetizing movies. Isolate what makes your eyes bright and your shoulders relax and go do it.
DO MORE SHIT THAT MAKES YOU AWESOME.
Also, don't eat a lot of glitter. Just in case.
Last night, as I drank cinnamon whiskey, watching lame movies via instant streaming on my tiny TV, and getting so caught up in crafting that I finally crawled into bed exhausted and exhilarated as the sun rose, I can't help but think that I am finally becoming the person I was meant to be. I try not to be too floofy (totally a word), about The Uuuuuuuniverse taking care of me, blah blah, but I can say with startling clarity that the last few months of fucking shit up has been leading to this glorious, abnormally-warm November day where I'm genuinely and furiously happy.
As most of you probably know, the last year (AN ENTIRE MOTHERLOVING YEAR HAS PASSED) has been an adventure for me of ginormous proportions. That's hyperbole, and makes it sound like I've been on a hobbit-like journey, when in reality I've just cried a lot, binge drank, and bought an obscene amount of ZzzQuil to cope with the little asshole known as insomnia. Mostly, I've just been overwhelmingly underwhelmed by cubicles, asshats, and the way my shoulders knot up beneath my ears in the way that makes me feel like if I don't GET OUT RIGHT FUCKING NOW I WILL DIE. I think they call that anxiety, but I call it getting so upset I dry heave out my car window on the way to terrible jobs.
The answer to this problem was that I did get out. I got out over and over again, leaving behind jobs that were more welcome-to-the-dark-side-you-douchecanoe than you're-doing-something-good-for-society. And I felt guilty. Every single time, my anxiety seamlessly became this amorphous blob, fluctuating rapidly and unexpectedly between crippling fear, uncertainty, and a dirty conscience.
But something has changed. Me, mostly. I've learned that I'm the most important thing in my life. I've learned that if I need to wander around Hobby Lobby for three hours until I can calm my racing pulse, (and impulsively decide that I need to learn the fine art of wood burning), that's okay. Leaving meaningless jobs where I was nothing more than an anonymous zit on the ass of corporate business is okay. Eating apples and Nutella for four days straight is okay. I'm okay.
Is my depression magically cured? Absolutely not, but I'm on new meds, (oh, HAI, I take meds), and found a therapist I like. Do I have my dream job? No, my dream job is being a professional chocolate tester and also napper where the uniform is a flying squirrel onesie. But I do have a fulfilling position at a local school district where I matter. Did I wake up today and shit glitter in regards to the sheer wonderment of such a bright and shiny and magical day?! Unfortunately not, but that's probably okay since I've hypothesized the tiny glass shards within the glitter would probably make a messy exit. BLOODY BUTT MASSACRE 2012.
But I did wake up and brush my teeth, put on a cute sweater and leave the house. Progress.
I don't want to be all, seize the day because every day we're moving one day closer to death, but YOU GUYS. SEIZE THE DAY BECAUSE EVERY DAY WE'VE MOVING ONE DAY CLOSER TO DEATH.
If this last year has taught me anything, it's to make time for what you love, to make time to live, whether that be knitting mittens, collecting coins, painting abstracts, or alphabetizing movies. Isolate what makes your eyes bright and your shoulders relax and go do it.
DO MORE SHIT THAT MAKES YOU AWESOME.
Also, don't eat a lot of glitter. Just in case.
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