Today was the day I had scheduled to sit down and write said blog post. I was going to wake up, eat my usual breakfast of yogurt, cornflakes, banana, and a drizzle of honey. Then I was going to shower before my flatmates woke up and slink off to a nearby cafe to write. The universe, however, had other plans. 

Three days ago I decided to say adios to my soulmate, coffee. Not forever, no I’m not that strong (or stupid?). Rather, it’s just something I am trying out for a week and then I will evaluate whether or not we should break up for good. Unfortunately, our love affair has reached a codependent status. For years, I have convinced myself that I’d be unable to function without my morning cup of 100% arabica drip coffee. Boy was I wrong.

When my friend texted me Friday night, she informed me that we were to meet one another at 1p at the entrance of Lollapalooza festival the following day. “Haha, we’ll see," I replied, knowing full well that the likelihood of me meeting her at 1pm was slim to none. I was already three beers deep and my innocent feet had ALL the rhythm.

I always thought that I had a high tolerance for pain up until yesterday when I felt like waving the white flag and screaming, “I give up—I am done with this bullshit.” Never in all my adult years could I ever remember feeling that bad.

For the most part I have adapted quite well to my new life abroad, though from time to time I have moments where everything feels super surreal. Having done what I did—selling all my things and moving to another country without knowing anyone or the language—is crazy, sure—but it was my crazy dream and I did it! 

About two months ago I sold all of my belongings and bought a one way ticket to the Techno capital of the world, Berlin. You would be surprised (or maybe you wouldn’t be) the amount of times I’ve heard the following questions: 

I recently drove from Tucson to New Orleans by myself. Now don’t get me wrong—this wasn’t something I just decided to do on a whim. In fact, I had been actively planning my solo venture for the entire month prior (and had been dreaming of it even longer.) I tried to route my journey strategically so that I wouldn’t be on the road more than 8 hours at a time (mostly because I didn’t want to be driving in strange places after dark.) That’s how I ended up in Roswell. 

Here I had spent the better part of a decade collecting treasures from thrift stores, craigslist, and yard sales and the only thing I had to show for it was a house full of thingamabobs and whatchamacallits. The true essence of collecting has always felt safe, secure, and familiar to me. That is until recently. 

When I moved from LA to Tucson, I spent $600 on a U-Haul that I just filled with crappy thrift store furniture and Target linens. Looking back, it probably would have made more sense to sell what little I had and use it to start over. But, no. That felt too scary, too real. I did it again when I moved from LA to Phoenix. That time, my stuff was a little bit nicer but not nice enough to justify spending almost a grand to haul it 400 miles. 

One of my favorite songs has been and probably always will be Autumn Sweater by Yo La Tengo. Though I love it just as much as I did the first time I heard it seven years ago, I love it in an entirely different way. Man, I swear this song is evolving with me. I don't always listen to Autumn Sweater, but when I do I put in on repeat for about an hour, gaining new insight about myself and the ones I love most.

Years ago my dad, being the progressive liberal he is, took my sister and I to Lilith Fair. For those who have never heard of it, Lilith Fair was a music festival that supported female musicians and raised money for women's charities throughout North America in the late 90s