When I was in high school, I used to daydream about what it was going to be like to be a grownup. Like, I would probably spend Friday nights with my obscenely cool friends, drinking Cosmos and talking to cute guys. Then I’d come home to my Felicity-like huge apartment, snuggle up in my gigantic bed with one of those big, cuddly down comforters, go to sleep, and wake up around 11:00 to go to brunch with the same impossibly hip people.
But really, I’m spending Friday night half asleep. Three glasses of wine and I’m done for the night, lying in (my tiny, tiny) bed (in my parents’ house) by 9:30, scrolling absentmindedly through Pinterest and trying to decide if I want to sleep now or blog now. Obviously, I’m blogging now. Why? Because I like you.
And my best friends right now happen to be the six chickens I got last weekend. If we’re friends on any sort of social media, you know that I am absolutely smitten by these ladies. It’s ridiculous. I’ve never really wanted kids. This is the closest I’m going to get. And I’m okay with that. Bailey isn’t. She hates them. And they’re going to be bigger than her in a few months. Or probably less. The last class I took that involved chickens was in 1999. I was in FFA. Future Farmers of America. And now I type for a living.
So, I’m over the Whole 30 thing. It was turning into an eating disorder for me. Food is meant to be enjoyed, damn it. I’ve been working on a post in my mind about the whole thing all week, but right now I can’t find the words I wanted. Seriously, three small glasses of wine. What happened to me? But yeah. Let’s get a pizza sometime. You know who you are*.
Good night, blog. See you in a few weeks or maybe tomorrow or maybe next year. I don’t know.
Here’s a picture, for the sake of having a preview picture when I post this on Facebook. This is how I try to live my life. You should, too.
*I mean you, whoever’s reading this. I probably like you, and I love pizza more than I like most people. I also really like nachos and bad movies. Let’s go out.