Life in Seattle

The other day, I spotted a notification in my Facebook feed that had nothing to do with me. By that, I mean that it wasn’t written by anyone I knew about any conversation we’d had, and I hadn’t commented on it or been tagged or anything else. The only things tying me to this person’s post were two of my friends, who had liked it, and the subject matter, which was Seattle, which is where I live.

(And this is why my profile is set to private, by the way. I don’t need friends of my friends seeing what I say and blabbing about it like some people might.)

I don’t want to share this person’s post here (because again, I don’t know them), but I’ve been thinking about it pretty regularly for the past two days. I cannot get this post out of my head, and I think it’s because while I agree with its basic point so hard that I feel like going out and burning down the nearest condo (and here in Ballard there are many to choose from), I’m also super annoyed with the rest of the post, or perhaps I’m just super annoyed by that uniquely Seattle-ish passive-aggressive tendency to complain about shit without a) knowing much about it or b) doing anything about it.

I still have to give a little background on this person’s post, although again, without sharing it or quoting it. Because again, I do agree with the basic point, but as I don’t know them, I think taking them to task directly would be rude.

The person began with complaining about the cost to rent a house in Seattle. And I absolutely agree – the cost of living in this town is exhorbitant, and depending on where you choose to stay (ahem, Capitol Hill comes to mind), you could very well be looking at $1200 a month for a studio. A studio apartment. One room. This is insanity, especially considering that you’re not getting a luxury space for that. You’re getting a pretty bland apartment in a big building filled with other people’s smells and probably no parking spot.

So. This person and I agree.

But then the post begins to veer away from me. In it, the person writes that Seattle just ain’t what it used to be (true, but what is?), that a lot of old favorite hangouts for old favorite Seattleites have closed (again, true, but this isn’t exactly news), and how Amazon is to blame (kind of true, but also a really convenient scapegoat, which is a point I’ll reach in a minute).

The person goes on to cite Seattle’s status as the nation’s fastest-growing big city, and complains that this growth, presumptuously the result of an influx of Amazon employees, is creating – okay sorry, I have to quote here – “a huge sterile, corporate wasteland full of awkward tech geeks” whose employment driving the median income up and, with it, housing prices, traffic problems, and shitty bars. Because of this, service industry employees (a caste this person implies are the only true Seattleites) are being priced out of the city and into…well, she doesn’t say. I assume it’s the suburbs but this is never said explicitly, and once more, I’ll reach that point in a minute.

According to this person, this problem could be easily remedied by getting rid of jobs in Seattle. How do we do this? Well, we kick the big, evil corporations out and truck them to a struggling city like Detroit and then we can all – fuck, I can’t stop quoting – “watch that city come back to life.” But this is a bad thing, apparently, because all the crumbling, abandoned buildings will be torn down (she calls them “artfully desperate,” which seems less like those structures that anchored once vibrant neighborhoods filled with actual human beings representing an American tragedy, and more like some fucking poser art project) to build condos.

And I just…guys? I can’t stand this kind of shit.

I can’t stand people with no real grasp of economics or social trends taking to their pulpits and spewing absolute fucking nonsense that really just boils down to they don’t feel as rich or as cool as they want to feel. I’m no capitalist, but I’m also no fool, and I know that people go where the money goes. Yeah, it sucks that entire blocks of Capitol Hill are being sold to condo developers because independent business owners’ rent doesn’t match up to huge property sale payoffs, but the transformation on the Hill now doesn’t seem so fucking different from the transformation it underwent 20 years ago when, according to the owner of gay bar The Pony, it became “…what Pioneer Square was a few years ago. It has become so overwhelmingly popular with young straight 20-somethings…They have this ‘attack, dominate’ mentality, and they don’t even necessarily know what this place is. It’s just yet another stop on this drunken bar crawl.”

See? People liked partying on the Hill, so they moved into the Hill, and now they’re stymied when other people follow (as if waves in population are anything new) and that independent video store they haven’t patronized in years (if ever) gets sold and they take to the Internet to complain.

It sucks that South Lake Union has become a glittering shopping mall I sneeringly refer to as “Amazonland,” crawling with people who spend entire weekends ducking in and out of Crate and Barrel and Whole Foods and are implicit in that laughably moronic “Life In Seattle” recruiting video (and indirectly responsible for its parodies), but at the same time, do I feel safer getting on a bus there (or in increasingly-minted Belltown, where I work for a tech company) than I might in a neighborhood that’s not so moneyed and not so trafficked? Well yes, I do.

And it sucks to watch Seattle erupt in glass and steel and assholes driving Teslas while watching your hometowns of Detroit, St. Louis, and Baltimore crumble into rust from a distance. But it sucks more to live in those cities and know that businesses have tried to relocate there but can’t because there’s no infrastructure or financial incentive to build any, because idiotic politicians would rather fund a new stadium than assist an actual job-creating enterprise.

And it sucks that it is really, really hard to find an affordable place here that isn’t a closet, and it’s fucking impossible to do that if you refuse to branch out to what old Capitol Hill residents claim are the suburbs, that is, the very much located-in-the-city neighborhoods of Fremont, Ballard, and Greenwood, or (gasp!) the actual suburbs, because it’s so much easier to turn your nose up at them than to open your fucking eyes and realize that this exodus of poors relocating from ever-richer Seattle may have created interesting, artistic communities in Shoreline or even White Center (not an actual suburb, but it might as well be to these people) when you weren’t looking.

And it sucks when your favorite bars close, especially when you put so much stock in name-checking a place where you once barfed into the bathroom sink and didn’t bother to clean it up because this is when you were young and reckless and awesome and never once thought of how the management was likely blowing all the money on coke, thus leaving the future of the business open to predators like real estate developers (as is often the case people ignore when misplaced nostalgia is more convenient).

And it sucks to feel like the city you’ve claimed as yours isn’t your own anymore, because that’s basically like loving a person who won’t love you back. But also, implying that refilling water glasses is somehow more inherently noble than coding software is just fucking stupid, because if you really would like to see all of those corporations (and the people who work for them) kicked out of Seattle, let’s see who has the money to come to your restaurant and tip you because you provided assiduous service to their table.

Mostly, for me, it sucks to see people complain about something like this, because for so many people who are new or new-ish to Seattle, this place is a fucking paradise. It’s safer that our hometowns. It’s cleaner. It’s beautiful and fun and you can find a job and what’s the fucking problem? It’s too nice? You want it to be shitty?

Yeah, I worry about the cost of living here. I roll my eyes at the newest condo some former frat bro will move into with his girlfriend and her tiny boutique dog. But as someone who came from a city rife with decay, mismanagement, crime and apathy born from decades of disappointment, I choose Seattle every single day that I’m here, and not once have I let the idea that it’s not as cool as it used to be change my mind.

Posted in I Just Can't, Seattle, WTF | Tagged | Leave a comment

Really, Really Bad

Today is Syttende Mai – the 17th of May, also known as Grunnlovsdagen (The Constitution Day) or Norwegian Constitution Day. I don’t live in Norway and none of my family comes from there, but I do live in Ballard and this place is lousy with Norwegians. As a result, there’s a big neighborhood parade full of local high school marching bands, Norwegian dignitaries, and Seattleites with names like Bjorn and Rolf.

The staging area for the parade is just outside my front door. It’s a beautiful day and something in me loves a display of civic pride, even though the cacophony of several marching bands at once sounds like an orchestra warming up in Hell.

Before the parade and its pre-ceremony, I walked down to the farmers market for potatoes (which will be dressed with carrots and peas in a lemon-tarragon-shallot butter later this week) and as an afterthought walked into my neighborhood bookstore.

Here’s the thing about walking into the neighborhood bookstore – I shouldn’t have done it. I wasn’t going to do it. I didn’t need to do it because two days ago, six of the books on my waitlist with the Seattle Public Library were released as downloadable at the same time. Clearly, I have enough to read and only 21 days in which to read it all (currently reading M.R. Carey’s “The Girl With All the Gifts,” which I emphatically recommend if you want a zombie story that isn’t at all like a typical zombie story, and after that will be Kazuo Ishiguro’s “The Buried Giant,” and after that will be whatever I think I can finish the most quickly). I didn’t need more books.

But this has never stopped me before, and there is something about the loose brick floor in this particular bookstore that lulls me into a kind of complacency. Before I know it, I’m picking up several $15 volumes and not being as discerning as I could be when putting some of them back down (mostly because I’m trying to make room for something else I just picked up). In fairness to myself, I did want to pick up some books for my nephews – “Howl’s Moving Castle” for the 8-year-old and a PNW-specific “Arrow to Alaska” for the 7-or-so-month-old – and since it is a lovely independent bookstore on what must be a high-rent block, I figured I’d support them a little more with a few items for myself.

Because this bookstore is pretty small, it’s easy to bump into people browsing in entirely different sections from you. As an example (ahem, entire point of this entry), I was browsing in fantasy when I overheard a woman – blond, bored, wealthy-looking – who was standing by the magazines. Next to her was a stroller, one of those high-tech, all-terrain, $600 jobs for babies who wear twill and shit, and in that stroller was a baby wearing twill and shit who was screaming because it had dropped its new, still-in-the-package toy on the ground. A toy the woman was not picking up. A toy the woman didn’t even acknowledge, just as she didn’t acknowledge her baby, who, like I said, was screaming.

I may not like babies who wear twill and shit but I dislike screaming even more, so I bent down, picked up the toy, and gave it back to the baby. This was noticed by its mother, although I wasn’t thanked or even acknowledged by anything but a blank stare. Satisfied, the baby went quiet, which allowed the woman to have a conversation with her other son, the maybe 9-year-old crouching next to her and drinking out of a Starbucks cup.

“But I really want this book,” he said, holding up an age-appropriate scifi novel (with chapters!) for her to see.

“Well, you’ll have to pay for it with your own money,” she said dismissively, continuing to look at the magazines.

Her son sighed and was quiet.

She continued, “You can pay me back when we get home, but you’d better decide how bad you want it, because it’s coming out of your money. So you better want it really, really bad.”

“I do want it,” he said, “but then I won’t have money for anything else.”

“Well, then I guess you shouldn’t get it,” she snapped. “Put it back.”

So.

Can I just.

I know I don’t have kids, and I know I don’t know this woman’s background, and I know I don’t know what other things her kid has asked to buy recently. But…come on, lady. It’s a book. A book that looks like it might be at least a little bit challenging, and your kid wants to read it, and maybe don’t be such a fucking asshole to him about it and buy him the fucking book. If you can buy him Starbucks, you can buy him a book. Or at least suggest that you walk one block over to the library to see if they have that book in stock. Of all the things you could possibly encourage your child to be – good with money, quiet in public, not some vapid yoga-pantsed snob reading InStyle magazine – a reader is not the absolute worst. You were dismissive and mean and ignorant in front of a stranger today, and I hope you remember that. I know your kid will. So it had better have been worth it. You better have wanted that really, really bad.

Posted in Bookish, I Just Can't, Seattle, The Zombie Apocalypse | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

New Words

This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking not so much of my own mother, but of my grandmother, my last grandparent, who recently passed away. It’s fine, it’s fine; it was a long time coming, and (sorry?) a bit of a relief after years of illness, weakness, and the frustration it caused for her. But I would be remiss not to remember the kindnesses she brought into my life.

She and my grandfather (although in fairness, it was mostly her) watched my sister and I every other day from almost birth through to kindergarten. She taught me to read. She cleaned and brushed the hair of my sister’s dolls. She begrudgingly let me do “science experiments,” which, when I was three, were limited to slicing open crabapples and dyeing cotton balls with food coloring. She made me (all of her grandchildren, actually) a quilt and let me pick the colors.

I still have dreams of going back to my grandparents’ house, the one they hadn’t lived in since I was maybe 12 years old. I dream that they’re both still alive, or that they’ve given the house to me. I dream about going back to this house more than I dream about going back to the house where I grew up, and dreaming about my grandparents’ house is always less upsetting because there are never any new people living in it.

So anyway. I’m thinking about my grandmother today, and also my grandfather, and also my other grandmother and grandfather, these people who may have been interested in seeing how I turned out, and who I sometimes miss so fiercely that event thinking about them feels like casting a line into the ether and pulling them back to me.

I’m still struggling to say anything about anything but am finding comfort in Kerouac’s Big Sur:

“…as far as I can see the world is too old for us to talk about it with our new words.”

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And You Will Have a Window In Your Head

In the interest of wanting to write here but not feeling worthy, and in receiving my annual notice that my domain name is going to expire soon even though I don’t really use it anymore, and in people still coming to read this even in numbers so miniscule that I wonder if they are the ghosts of my grandparents shushing around machines instead of actual people who are still conscious of actual blogs, I thought I’d say something.

It always seems like I encounter the same things in bursts, or clusters, or in finally-recognizable patterns and while it feels like a dreamy sort of déjà vu, it also force me to wonder what else I’ve been focusing on and, in turn, ignoring, and as a result, what comes next.

This week, it’s Wendell Barry’s “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front.”

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion — put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

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shut up

As I mentioned before, I’m not writing much these days. I’m just tired, is all, and a little down in the dumps, and I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t involve either food or taking the bus. I still think about writing all of the time, and I occasionally feel guilty about not doing it anymore, but every time I seriously consider sitting down and saying stuff on this pretend paper, I feel a little queasy and decide that nothing in my head is all that important.

I don’t get traffic anymore. I mean, I get some, but it’s a barely there sliver of what it was before. This bothered me at first but it doesn’t so much now. I feel like blogs in general aren’t really a thing these days, and although I’m not yet ready to give up this platform entirely, I’m more pleased about getting more Twitter interactions than blog visitors.

Speaking of blog visitors, though, there are still some people who check in every now and then – the old regulars and occasionally some new people, likely linked to this by some Google search or another and ending up (I guessing) disappointed. At least that’s what I assume from the visit lengths and, sometimes, comments, which, when they happen, turn out to be somehow both shitty and also the funniest part of my day.

The thing is, I’ve spent a lot of time on the Internet, both in the reading and writing aspects. I’ve read a lot of people’s stuff and found it to be appropriately hilarious, uplifting, enraging, and awful. I sometimes comment on people’s stuff but usually only when I know them in some way, or, if I don’t know them, I limit my comments to something like praise. I can honestly say that I don’t remember ever posting something mean or negative as a comment on something someone wrote – I mean, I might write about it later on my own platform, but I don’t even link back to it (because if I hated it so much, why would I give that person the satisfaction of views?). I just don’t see the point. I’ve never seen the point. Maybe I just have weird priorities, but to me, posting a shitty comment on a stranger’s blog is like pissing into the wind. It doesn’t really affect anyone but you, and I’m betting that unless you’re into some seriously gross German pornography, it doesn’t make you feel all that much better inside when you’re done.

Of course, not everyone feels this way. Much like the customers who seemed to come out to have a bad time during my bartending days, there are lots of people who get on the Internet to dislike what they see. Which just baffles me. It really does. We have the Internet, this unbelievably vast and intelligent communication tool connecting the entire world to all of the information and media we could ever desire, and for some people, the best use of it is to type “cunt” at someone they don’t even know. It’s not even insulting at that point, it’s just strange.

What’s really weird is that out of all of the blog comments I’ve ever received, the one constant is that the shitty ones almost always get posted on really old stuff. There are topics I wrote about years ago that still attract morons from all corners of the Internet who can see that the last time I covered the issue was in June of 2012 but, because they are so brilliant, they still think their opinion of my opinion is relevant more than two years later. And so they tell me this in what appears to be a limited vocabulary from an anonymous source.

Although these comments are supposed to make me furious (I think), instead, they make me laugh. For example, yesterday I received an e-mail from WordPress alerting me of a blog comment. I haven’t written regularly in at least a couple of months, so I don’t receive these very often anymore. I expected a SPAM comment, honestly, something undetected by WordPress’ now out-of-practice filter.

But it was not a SPAM comment. It was an actual comment. A comment on something I wrote months ago, that I had, until yesterday, completely forgotten and neither thought nor wrote anything about since the original post. What the comment said was this:

This is shit. shut up

And for some reason, this comment made me laugh. It made me laugh hard, to the point where I kind of snorted and felt my eyes get wet. I mean, obviously it was meant to make me feel bad about myself, but something about its brevity, its lazy structure, and its blunt anger just cracked me the fuck up and I could not handle it.

Like all of the shitty comments I receive, I deleted this one. I didn’t respond to it, either, unless you consider this to be sort of an oblique response in which I don’t address the commenter directly but sort of dance around the absurdity of their relationship to me and what I wrote. But above all, I laughed, and I’m still laughing, and I would like “Olive” whose IP address is in upstate New York to up her comment game so I can continue laughing well into the future.

Posted in The Internet is My Boyfriend, Writing | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

A Loner, Dottie, a Rebel

Yesterday, I wrote over on the food blog in a post titled “’Twas the Week Before Christmas” that because I work in e-commerce and have a slew of 12+ hour days ahead of me, if it’s not comfort food, it’s not getting fucking made this week.

This is a line I feel I have to draw in the sand – I simply have no time or patience for anything I don’t completely love, or for anything that doesn’t make me feel as though all is right with the world as long as that world includes me sitting on my couch in a pair of fat pants, clutching a bowl of something soothing and delicious. Almost everything needs to be ready relatively quickly, as well, because if the past few workdays have proven anything, it’s that I will stumble home sometime around 6:30 or 7:00 and barely have enough energy to keep my eyes open after 9pm. And when I not only have to feed myself but also deep-clean the house to prepare for the imminent arrival of Craig WHO IS MOVING TO SEATTLE AND WILL ARRIVE NEXT WEEKEND, I need all the time I can get before I pass out.

Craig will be staying with us for a few weeks until his paychecks are such that he can find a studio or roommate situation in Seattle. Which is completely okay with me. I honestly do think that Craig will be happy in Seattle, of course because Graham is here, but also because…I don’t know, why am I happy in Seattle? There’s something about the character of the city and the pace of life that satisfies me far more than St. Louis did, and just as Courtney knew that Graham and I in particular would fit in in Seattle, I know that there’s a quality in Craig that will, too.

I am a little nervous about living with someone else, though. This says nothing about Craig, who is perhaps the most unobtrusive person in the world, and yes, I do realize that he’s already got a job lined up and will be working at it immediately and therefore not at the house all of the time. But outside of Graham, I haven’t lived with anyone else for more than 10 years. And it took me nearly 5 years of dating Graham before I’d agree to move in with him. Basically:

Graham says that if I need alone time, I can just ask Craig to put some shoes and a coat on and go explore Ballard for awhile. And I’m sure this would be fine. I just don’t want to get shitty about anything, because as excited as I am for a) Craig to get here, b) our St. Louis-in-Seattle chapter to grow, and c) to be a part of doing something for my friend that I think will ultimately make him a happier person, I’m still looking at the dwindling number of days left by myself and getting a little antsy about them. And when I pack in things like working, cleaning, and cooking and sourcing what I need for Christmas Eve (which is shaping up to be a very non-Italian Feast of the Seven Four Fishes including potato latkes – that I have to make, fry, and freeze in advance – with crème fraiche, cured salmon and ikura roe, crab bread pudding, roasted shrimp with artichoke pesto and some smoked whitefish spread with dark bread assuming I can find a source for the whitefish, as well as some filler like deviled eggs, pickled vegetables and probably some cookies or something), I fear these last few days will fly by and I won’t have appreciated them enough.

And then everything from :40 will be me:

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Swallow This

So. I started a food blog. It’s here if you feel like reading it, and currently, I’m giving it a little more time and effort than I’m spending on this platform.

The reasons for this are twofold, really. One, while I really enjoy thinking about, talking about, and cooking food, I realize that most of the people who read this (or maybe I should say most of the people who still read this) don’t really give a shit, or simply prefer the good ol’ dick and fart jokes on which I made my name. And I don’t blame them. I’ve been writing this in one form or another for close to 10 years, so regardless of how little time I spend here now, a format change at this point would be ridiculous. Best to take the food talk elsewhere and keep a dedicated space for it. Make the jump if you want. If you don’t, that’s fine with me.

Two, even though I realize that most people I know don’t really care about the food posts, I feel like it’s necessary for me to write them because they’re one of the few things keeping my head above water right now. I’ve seen it coming for awhile, been able to sense it just around the corner, and although it’s not really here here, not just yet, I’ve got another major depressive bout to contend with, and sometimes the thought of writing anything that isn’t as immediate as the food I just put into my mouth fills me with exhaustion and dread. It’s as if I don’t know what to say if I’m not saying it about food. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve written and deleted so many fucking posts in the past few weeks (including this one), and there was a point in every single one of them where I veered way off track and just plummeted into a dark, negative space with no way back. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past 10 years, it’s how to stay on topic and keep engaging people while I’m doing it (usually with the aforementioned dick and fart jokes). That’s something I’ve largely lost the ability to do lately, which is a lot of why I’m writing less.

Because being depressed is what it is, there’s not a lot I can do to avoid it. Like I said, I’ve seen this coming for awhile. I’ve had the familiar symptoms. I’ve been digging in and trying to stave them off for just a little while longer, a couple more weeks, just let me get through this other thing and then you can feel free to wallop me good, okay? Kick my ass, just…later.

But I can’t do it forever. It’s as if I’m perched on the precipice of a black hole and there are no handsome movie star astronauts to pull me back. While this will most definitely suck, at least this time seems a little different from the last time and I suppose that’s sort of interesting from an objective standpoint. Last time, I identified the primary feeling as sadness. That sadness affected the way I saw and interacted with the rest of the world and I was worried that I would not be able to continue functioning in a normal way because I was too sad.

This time, though, while I guess there is some sadness, mostly I don’t feel much of anything at all. I feel hollow, actually, and while I was walking around the other day, I briefly imagined that someone could reach an arm into my mouth and drop a stone down my throat and it would fall for ages before going plunk like a solitary object into a deep well. It feels like I don’t contain anything. I have nothing to contribute. I have no energy to spend. Doing anything that isn’t sitting quietly by myself or staring blankly at my bedroom wall feels like scraping the hollowness inside of me to find some wherewithal to participate, and because of this, simple things like talking to a cashier or going to work or writing about my fucking day are fucking exhausting. What’s even more exhausting – not to mention boring – is telling people about it, which is why I sometimes wish that depression had more of a physical aspect so people could just look at me and be like “ohhhh, right.” Currently, the only physical manifestations (or exacerbations, depending on how you want to look at it) are fatigue and vertigo, but based on that criteria, couldn’t any tired old drunk just be depressed?

I’m not sure why food seems to be the only topic that can keep me on track, or why just talking about it makes me feel something like contentment, but since this is the case, I’m choosing to go with it and follow whatever makes me feel less shitty. If nothing else, at least there are more leftovers and baked goods in the house.

 

(I am not asking for comments, or support, or whatever else people feel obligated to provide. I mean, do what you want, I’m just not fishing for it. And please do not suggest vitamin D, exercise, crafting, support groups, or the other things you heard might help. I’ve done what I can and I know what works and this is something I just have to wait out, no matter how interminable the wait may seem. This is not the place to tell me what to do. Thanks.)

Posted in I Eat, I Hate, I Just Can't, Sads, Writing | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment