Internet, it is 2:14 a.m. and I am looking at this issue of InStyle like I would look at some dude I’d been, uh, hanging out with for a little while but who still insisted on burping every other second and pinching my ass when I squeezed past him to get the beer he demanded I go fetch because the game was on and he couldn’t bear to remove his hands from the wasteband waistband…
Internet, I feel like I have voluntarily cast myself into the desert and am not even halfway across the first dune. The thing is, the desert looked completely walkable at first glance, but now I realize that every step takes extra effort because I’m WALKING ON FREAKING STUPID SAND. I am, of course, being overly metaphorical here in my attempt to describe what it’s like to realize that I am only 80 pages in to…
One of the fun things about moving is the slow and steady trickle of the former tenant’s mail that you get to receive for a few months (or, if you’re super fortunate, years). When I moved into this house, I suddenly became the recipient of fashion catalogs from stores I literally had never even heard of, all of which were peddling stretchy, layery black things for exorbitant amounts of money. My house’s previous occupant was…
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