It’s like coming up with the most epic comeback on the block during yet another dumb dispute with the neighborhood bully.
Or thinking of the perfect caption for the instagram/facebook photo you just posted, the snapchat you just sent.
Or walking away from the cashier knowing that you only paid a fraction of the price of those crisp, white, pair of Converse All Stars.
Or randomly shooting a junior basketball in the middle of that same shoe store, hearing that sweet “swish” sound, and looking around to realize that yes- yes that sales associate who’s been crushing on you upon arrival did, too, see you make that shot. *winky face*
That state of jubilation. That deep breath in, and super cheddar-cheesin’ exhale out. That’s the kind of stuff I live for. Continue reading
It all started when I was 10. Weapon of choice? Little, blue, Pebble diary with a little lock that can be unlocked by a pen cover. I felt so badass with that diary, which was worth about $100 in 10-year-old money. I remember writing about my birthday. I remember writing in made-up “code”, aka: my sorry excuse for modern-day hieroglyphics. The sad part is I lost the “master decoder”, so I can’t even decode my own secrets. I have no recollection of my birthday because my dumbass decided it was that top secret. Way to go, 10-year-old self. Way…to…go.
It started as a way to brag about my life to myself. Like Facebook…before Mark Zuckerberg’s heart got broken once upon a time in college. The secret to awesome diary writing was to 1.) Always start with “Dear Diary,” and 2.) pretend like everything you’re writing in there is so ridiculously juicy that all your friends and family will want to know what all the stupid fuss is about, and 3.) you gotta have a secret hiding spot. My secret hiding spot was in my dresser, underneath all my underwear. Because it was the most disgusting spot I could think of. Continue reading
The other week I was group-texting with a couple of friends talking about how broke we all were. 28-29ish and broke. How are we broke in our late 20s?! It doesn’t make any sense. But then I think about where my money goes. I think about favorite memories such as this, this, and this. Right…there. They go into traveling, and seeing the whole new Aladdin & Jazzy Jaz world without a magic carpet…and exploring the delicious crap (weird) out of just about anywhere. Continue reading
I may have “itchy feet”. In the last three weeks I’ve driven to and from Chicago two weekends in a row and have flown to Los Angeles and back, explored the city of Toledo (which you can read about here, and more here) and I pre-diagnosed myself with “itchy feet”. But I can’t help it! It’s instilled in my being, tattooed to my soul.
My name is Monica. It’s been just shy of 24 hours since my last adventure and only 8 days since I was in another city.
For those who haven’t quite figured it out yet, I’m in a serious relationship with music. Have been for awhile now. Just something we like to keep on the “DL” in effort to filter out the noise from others’ expectations. It’s more intimate this way. To not…care what others think. To do…whatever it is we please.
We’ve had our share of disputes. Our deafening awkward silences in the car. Our screamingly loud arguments that solved nothing. But there’s also all the warm and fuzzies, the bittersweets. The lyrically choreographed teardrops that surprise you when you least expect it. And the good times with clouded memories of living wildly, acting obnoxiously. It’s a love/hate relationship. One that heavily relies on perfect timing. Just like everything else, right? Just like…everything else. Continue reading
St. Jerome’s Laneway Festival, Detroit 2013
Song: Gasoline by Alpine
Quote: Friedrich Nietzsche
If you haven’t listened to “Pretty Wings” by Maxwell in a corner somewhere while stuffing your face with leftover birthday cake and crying black mascara tears… I’m pretty sure you’re doing it wrong.
Did I lose you? (pauses) Doesn’t matter.
What matters is that that happened. In my life. Tonight. And I’m still able to write about it. And laugh about it. And cry some more if I really, really wanted to. (TBD) Continue reading