Alice is back. Back again. (insert dancing emoji or something)

The man in my life told me I needed a hobby. Even Facebook asked me what my hobbies are…haha…ahhh. Unfortunately, picking up a new skill/time killer is not as easy as it sounds. So, of course, I Googled a few things to help me out….

“I have no hobbies.”


“I don’t like doing anything.”

“Hobbies for people with no hobbies.”

“Can your butt get flat if you sit on it too much?”

The results….slightly depressing.

  1. Hiking (Gross. And who would I hike with?)
  2. Knitting (I already have too many blankets.)
  3. Drawing (Stick figures.)
  4. Learn an instrument (Tried that.)
  5. Adult coloring books (No. Just no.)
  6. Start a club with your friends (#1 this isn’t sixth grade. #2 friends? Ha, I’m a mom.)
  7. Writing (Well, shit. I guess I do that.)

So, after a loooonng six month blog break, I’ve decided to return to my “wanna be famous writer” roots.

A lot has changed in the last six months. A LOT. Puppies, weddings, shooting things, filming things, and pretending to be a singer (yes, still…). Still in school. Got a job as a teacher. Quit job as a teacher.


I’ve been reading a few blogs lately, and it seems the common topic is depression. I think blogs are supposed to have a theme, and I guess that’s a common one. Don’t get me wrong,  I’ve gone through my fair share of depression, but there’s got to be something else to discuss. Or maybe not.

I’ll think of something, I’m sure. 😉

Some cupcakes to heal your disappointment.

I’ve been at a loss regarding what to discuss, lately. Everyone is enthralled with politics (myself included, for the first time ever), or the holidays (too early to be putting up lights, people), or selling some weird Lularoe leggings along with shirts that are too big (you know who you are… I STILL don’t want to buy anything).

To update the last month, I quit my job at the hospital to be a substitute teacher for…middle and high school. Unfortunately, kids don’t enjoy subs like they used to! That’s okay. Eventually, I’ll get them to think I’m cool. Hell, I’m not that much older than they are, so I’m cool. It’s not going to be an easy job, but anything is easier than going to a job you don’t like.

The first quarter of grad school is ending next week, which is a real shame. But hopefully that means more book reading and blog writing. Oh, and book writing. Speaking of which, does anyone know someone who can illustrate? I will pay actual money for some good illustrations.

Anyway. I know many of you feel like you’ve lost all hope this week. While I can’t fix that, I can provide you with an unhealthy coping mechanism: eating. So, here’s a recipe. One that I swore I would never share (no joke, it’s hidden away) because it has made me some moolah, but I’m feeling quite generous today. Even if you don’t like bananas, I’m pretty sure you’ll like these. And even if you’re not a “sweets” person (which is really odd), you’ll like these 😉 If you don’t like them, don’t eat them.

If you have any questions, comment. I’m sure I’ll accidentally leave out some really important step.


Election Week Coping Mechanism Cupcakes 


For the cake:

  • 1 box french vanilla cake mix
  • 1 package banana pudding mix
  • 3 large eggs
  • 1/2 cup melted butter
  • 1 cup water

For the banana custard:

  • 1 1/2 bananas, sliced
  • 1/2 cup milk
  • 1 1/2 cup heavy cream
  • 1/4 cup corn starch
  • 1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons sugar
  • 1 1/2 tablespoon vanilla
  • 1/4 teaspoon salt

For the banana frosting:

  • 1 or 2 mashed bananas (depending on your preferences)
  • 5 tablespoons flour
  • 1 cup milk
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla
  • 1 cup butter
  • 1 cup GRANULATED sugar ( regular ol’ white sugar)



For the cupcakes:

  1. Line muffin pan with cupcake liners, and heat the oven to 350.
  2. In a large bowl, combine cake mix, pudding mix, eggs, butter, and water. Mix on medium speed for about two minutes.
  3. Divide the batter into the cupcake liners (no more than 2/3 full).
  4. Bake for twenty minutes, and let cool completely.

For the custard filling:

  1. Place all the ingredients in a blender and mix until combined.
  2. Pour mixture into a saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until mixture starts to bubble and thicken.
  3. Remove from heat and let cool. Put some saran wrap directly on top of the mixture to prevent a film from forming.

For the frosting:

In a saucepan, mix flour into milk over medium/low heat, stirring constantly, until it thickens. It will be thick, thicker than cake mix. Let it cool to room temp and stir in some vanilla. While that sticky mess is cooling, cream the butter and sugar together, getting rid of nearly all the graininess. Add the cooled thick mixture to the butter/sugar cream, and beat the hell out of it. Beat it on high for a long time, five to ten minutes. You’ll know it’s done when it’s smooth and resembles whipped cream. Add the banana and beat it some more, until the banana is mixed in.

To assemble:

  1. Take your thumb, and poke a hole in the middle of each cupcake. Just push it down, you don’t need to remove the cake.
  2. Fill each hole with banana custard using a pastry bag with a tip.
  3. Put the banana frosting into a pastry bag with a tip (because of the banana pieces, the tip needs a larger hole….Wilton 1M works well). Frost however you know how.
  4. Garnish with a dusting of cocoa powder.


And there ya go! Cupcakes make everything better, everyone.









Control yourself!

Two reasons why I haven’t written a post in a month: 1) writing dark fiction for grad school is super fun and time consuming, and it sucks out all of my brain’s creativity  2) I listened to someone’s cold opinion about the blog. Referring back to post #1, I don’t usually give a crap. So, I’m back.

Yesterday I made the decision to eat super healthy for the next two weeks. SUPER healthy, fourteen days, totally doable. Juices, salads, smoothies…all the good stuff. :-/

That’s some cute kale. Dying to be eaten.

Little did I know, today was the start of customer service appreciation week (whether or not that’s a national thing, I do not know).

This morning, a bag of candy, and a donut box with my name on it, sat on my work desk. Along with a schedule of all the other lard-creating food the hospital is giving us this week.

I don’t understand why I have no self control. Put something sweet in front of me, and I will eat it. Every damn time. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been eating healthy for four days (the maximum number of healthy days I’ve been capable of thus far), or if I’ve been eating like a pig all week. I will eat the candy, and I will eat the donuts. A lot of the time, it happens in one sitting.


I know the consequences. I will get diabetes when I’m older. I already know I will. I should just go buy some insulin now.

I even said it was bad two years ago!

So why the hell do I keep doing it?!

It’s like having the extra glass of wine, when you know you’ve already had too much (which, for me, isn’t much). Or spending money in yuppy coffee shops when you know you should buy groceries instead. Or talking shit about someone when it’s going to turn into office gossip. Or knowing a relationship is bad, but staying in it anyway.

People are constantly doing things they KNOW are not good.

I probably shouldn’t eat this candy. No, I KNOW I shouldn’t eat the damn candy! But I do it anyway! Cause I’m weak!

What the hell is the science behind this thought process? Not listening to our better judgement and always causing harm to ourselves or others. It’s weird. And it’s annoying. Because I really want a bikini bod, but I can’t not eat candy if it’s just sitting there.

A friend told me it’s because we crave instant gratification, as opposed to long-term gratification. I guess that makes sense. I want the instant satisfaction of melty chocolate and donuts in my mouth. But I also want to look super hot in Hawaii. But candy is in front of me. Hawaii is two weeks away. Candy=instant. Hawaii=far away. I want to be happy right now, dammit.

That blob is me in Hawaii, holding a huge pina colada and a beastly cookie.

I’ll always choose the candy. What is wrong with me?!



I flick french fries out the window.

While I have weird motivational brain stew practically pouring out of my face and onto this blogeth (yes, I changed the name), I feel it’s time for a little comedy. Something perplexing that I probably shouldn’t even make public.

Anytime I’m shoving my face with fries, I eat all the way up to the part I’m touching. And then I throw the rest out the window. If you’re driving and flying fries are hitting your windshield, that’s me in front of you. I’m not kidding.


Spiders are creepy. Heights are nerve wracking. Bees are scary if 1) you’re a serious weenie (like me) or 2) you’re allergic. Snakes are just gross. Flying is hard to comprehend. And small spaces are intimidating. What if you get trapped with someone who has some sort of intestinal air disease? That would be ghastly! (Get it? GAS-tly?)  

My mom knows a person who is deathly afraid of condiments. Condiments. Ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise; the things that make many foods worth eating, this person is afraid of. I can’t explain it. Maybe they had a bad dream about them.


So, imagine you know a person who will run, scream, shake like a leaf, and just about drop dead if they’re faced with this horrendous curse from God. Imagine this person will consider jumping out of a plane if they’re faced with…throw up. 

I have no idea how it started, but my guess is it had something to do with my mom dumping vomit on my head when I was two. Just kidding. I don’t think she did that.

I get it. No one likes it. Everything about it is absolutely disgusting. And if you get some sort of pleasure out of regurgitating your food like a bird, I’d be more than happy to assist you in finding a counselor.  

Not washing hands= potential to contract a gut-murdering virus. If I haven’t washed my hands, I flat out REFUSE to eat something I’ve touched. In fact, if I’m feeling particularly puffy (I don’t much care for the word ‘bloated’), a foolproof way for me to avoid eating the entire king size KitKat is to just touch it on its bare naked chocolate. 

To refrain from eating this prop, I touched a grocery cart AND a gas pump.

There was a period of time in which I didn’t eat meat because I was too scared of getting food poisoning. Turns out, raw vegetables can be the devil in disguise. I have avoided boyfriends, family members, and coworkers anytime they mention something gut related. Oh, you got the squirts? Get the hell away from me. 

My brother got sick in the car once (do not violently tickle someone while they’re taking a drink of lemonade; they will choke). It was the middle of winter, and my mom wouldn’t let me roll the window down more than a half an inch. I utilized that slit of air to the fullest extent. Stuck my nose out the window for a full forty minutes to avoid breathing in the car.

I wish I was a horse. They don’t throw up.


On my ten hour flight home from Japan (a month ago), I was forced to sit two seats away from a teenager who threw up the entire time. For real. 10 hours. Of all people to be placed near him, the dear Lord chose me. I put my shirt over my nose and didn’t eat or drink the entire time, so as to avoid any germ particles getting into my mouth. But I think I’m cured. 10 hours of exposure therapy in one sitting?  Thank you, Asian kid on flight #AC4. You were cheaper than my psychiatrist.  

Hopefully I still have a boyfriend after this…I promise I’ll kind of take care of you when you’re sick, boyfriend. 

For real, though. I can’t be the only one with an outrageous phobia. Do share.

Eat this. Unless you’re easily offended.


What a bummer to be a yellow or an orange Starburst. The candy company created a package of everyone’s favorites, and now the little yellow and orange guys are going to wither away on store shelves. It’s sad. Kinda like Lucky Charms. I mean, really…who doesn’t pick out all of the marshmallows before they eat the icky Cheerio-like things? Maybe that’s only me…

As soon as I saw this twisted Starburst phenomenon in Walgreens, I thought of the wonderful world of religion. Now, before you stop reading because you’re worried this is going to be some “pro” or “anti” religion post…please know that it’s neither of those. Practice and preach whatever you please. Whatever melts your butter.

I see religion (any religion) as the original package of Starbursts. It’s got traditional flavors. The basic rules. People who buy a package of Starburst usually don’t eat every color. They pick their favorites. Much like people only hearing what they want to hear, or only doing what they want to do. Some lies are okay to tell, while others might send you to hell (I should write poetry). People pick and choose what they desire.

Don’t murder. Oh yeah, we can all agree with that. That’s a red starburst. Eat it!

No sex before marriage. Only some people agree with that. That’s an orange. Throw it away!

Be kind to your neighbors. That’s a pink. Nom nom!

Don’t lie. That’s a yellow. Ehh, eat it if you’re desperate.

**That was a short and generalized (key word there) list of religious guidelines, which you may (or may not) agree with.

You can’t just take what you want out of the Bible/Torah/ Koran/Bhagavad-Gita/etc, and reject the stuff you don’t want. If you’re gonna do that, you might as well not pick it up in the first place. Apparently there is a phrase for this…it’s called cherry-picking. But I’m going to call it Starburst-picking.

Don’t be lukewarm. Don’t be half full. Don’t be an over-easy egg, or skim milk. Go all in, or don’t go in at all. Red, pink, yellow, and orange…or say screw it, and buy the package of FaveReds. That’s how it should probably be with everything. All in or nothing with relationships. All in or nothing with work, school, etc. You either give it your all, or you don’t give it anything. Half ass is never an respectable option.

If you committed to buying the original package of Starbursts, eat the whole damn package. If you only want to pick what you want, and throw the yellow and orange ones away, why even bother? It’s hypocritical to buy the whole package, pretend you’re going to eat them all, and then chuck all the yucky colors in the trash.

I’m guilty of Starburst-picking. All the time. I don’t like the orange Starbursts at all. It’s hard to eat something you don’t like. But try to eat them, or you just won’t get your money’s worth.

**The Starbursts were only used as an analogy. No one cares what color Starbursts you actually eat.

Experience not required. Cause you still won’t know what you’re doing.


No matter how many years of experience you have, you’re unqualified. Experience in almost everything, except this, will benefit you. But in this area, you are SOL (shit outta luck, for all you who don’t know).

For heaven’s sake, I’ve got eight years under my belt. Eight! I don’t know about everyone else, but I feel like that’s a long ass time. That’s a doctorate. I’ve got a doctorate in parenting, but I still fail almost every test.

My little son. I’m pretty sure the child was put on this earth to test me more than any boyfriend ever will. If you know him, you know he’s got the biggest blue eyes. Seriously, he’s the cutest little guy ever created (no offense to your little dudes), and he’s my favorite guy in the whole world. 

He is often a well-behaved kid. But when he’s not, I want to drop to my knees. I will think back to my pregnancy (nearly six years ago) to fall back in love with his baby-ness, and to make sure that he’s actually mine. I will call his father when I know he’s relaxing on his day off of work. I will sit on my couch and wonder how the actual hell I manage to avoid day drinking.

He threw a mighty fit last night. I’m talking MIGHTY fit. And, of course, as he’s throwing things and trying to escape his room, I’m just thinking, “Please, please don’t let my kid be the one who loses his shit in school.” We all have that fear.

What do I do? Do I go the old fashioned route? Do I display an overwhelming amount of love, to the point I’m vomiting flowers and hearts? Do I ignore him? Do I call a child psychologist? I ruined my boobs for this lunacy?

Honest to God, I don’t know a thing about child psychology, but I do know that no kid benefits from their parent(s) acting like an angry warthog. Doing so does nothing for your kid. It only makes them want to be a bigger, scarier, droolier warthog. And that’s ugly. We do not want a killer pig. We want Pumba.


(Insert picture of Lion King Pumba here…cause apparently it’s not legal for me to take one off of Google. And the last thing I need is a Disney lawsuit.)

I can hear some of you now…Well, maybe if you would have become a parent at a normal age, you’d have a better idea of what you’re doing. 

Don’t even. Is there some sort of parenting book that you’re only allowed to have when you have a kid in your upper twenties? No? Alrighty then.

Parenting is one area that varies so greatly among each kid. My advice? Don’t ask other parents for advice. I sure as hell don’t. Mostly because I’m stubborn. Partly because…well, I’m just stubborn. And like I said, each kid is different anyway.

Anyway, vent to other parents. Chances are, they have (or will…multiple times) feel the same way. There’s nothing like having another parent to lean on when your kid throws a tantrum at 10pm.

“Oh my gosh! Your son tried to break down the door, too?!”

Parental bonding, right there.

By the way, that picture was not staged. But that was my other kid. She doesn’t have tantrum problems, just a possible case of OCD.


A pathetic attempt at rebellion.


One time (this weekend), I decided to be a badass. And I don’t mean “whoa, that girl is super freaking cool” kind of badass. I mean I decided to be bad and an ass.

It was one of those days when the brown stuff hit the spinning ceiling thing. People were inconsiderate, hearts were breaking, kids were slapping each other, coffee was watery, bank account was too low, margaritas weren’t strong enough, pizza wasn’t salty enough, everything. And so, the next day, I decided to have a “screw it all” day.

I skipped church and researched a different way of life. I went and bought myself some expensive coffee, despite my dwindling account. My mouth spurted out words that should have stayed in my head, and my mind drifted to flawed places. I abandoned the nerdy books and made plans for the night. I skipped the Blind Pilot and listened to some hard core Five Finger Death Punch instead (isn’t that what the cool kids listen to?). I ditched the glasses and ordered contacts. I cut my hair. I got my nose pierced. Yes, all in one day.

Screw you, world! Screw being a little vulnerable girl. Rebel! Embrace rage! Badass! 

After I got done complaining about EVERYTHING, and attempting to alter my entire existence, one of my best friends in the history of friends said, “Keep your damn head on straight.” And somehow I translated that into: the world pooping on you is not punishment for who you are; it’s a test. Just because the world isn’t flowing in your favor, doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. Can you hold yourself together when everything (and everyone) else is performing like a cheap piece of toilet paper? 

A lot of times, you will never be quite good enough. Or sometimes you’ll be close to perfect, and shit will still go wrong. But don’t freaking change yourself. Unless you’re really being a crap human…then you might want to change. But don’t change to please people. No one likes people pleasers.

I’m not switching religions, wasting money, or listening to anymore Five Finger Death Punch. But the nose decoration is definitely staying, even if I keep sneezing. It makes me feel like the good kind of badass.

Don’t take over your dad’s company. Unless you want to.

I literally just wrote about the quarter-life crisis I was having. And I mentioned that I’ve changed my mind four times in two years. Well, dear people, I’ve changed it again. Not drastically. More like dropped out of one graduate program to enter a different one. And paid 10k more. No big deal.

Sometimes you have to lose your shit to realize what the hell you’re doing. (The word “shit” isn’t going to hurt you. You hear it in movies…pretend this is a movie.)

I went through a minor (major, if you ask the boyfriend) depression/mental episode for about two weeks, and it ended at approximately 9:04pm on August 24th. I was battling between going to one school to teach humans under the age of eighteen, and another school to teach something else to humans over the age of eighteen.

As I began my first assignment for the younger human program (the one that I chose immediately after graduating college), hell hit my face. I started to feel suffocated, annoyed, and weepy. Basically, I felt like I needed to eat two cakes. It was another dramatic I have no idea what I’m doing moment.

And then my cute little mom walked downstairs. Yes, I live with my mom. This is Colorado. I’m a single parent, and there’s no way I can afford it here. Anyway, I told her I was just not enjoying the program like I thought I would. Granted, I was one day in. But I LOVE school. If you know me, you know I would rather do homework than spend a day at a Water World. I wish I could do your homework for you. Unless you’re studying Spanish; trying to learn Spanish makes me cry.

Me: I don’t think this is what I want to do. Look at this textbook! The History of Education. I can’t read this!

Cute little mom: I can’t picture you teaching high school English. That’s not who you are.

Well, that would have been great news a couple months ago. But hell! Better now than never.

So, I lasted one day in the master’s program that I chose. ONE DAY. But I can already tell I will love the other program more. Even if the job outlook is much different.


**Apparently I think I’m a motivational speaker now, so imagine I’m standing on a stage in a snazzy, yet professional, outfit. Pretend there is also a stool with a glass of water sitting on it**

You were not put on this earth to work a job you don’t love, in order to pay bills you don’t really need to have, in order to DIE. With no impact on the world. You will die. And hating Mondays for the rest of your life is really going to stink. Facebook shouldn’t be filled with “Monday” posts.

Random lady getting her car worked on: So sad. He’s a mechanic, for heaven’s sake. Dirty all the time. And how much money could he possibly make?

Mechanic: (smiling and lip syncing while working on her car)

Yep. Must suck to do something you enjoy. That lady is going to go to work and count down the hours until Friday so she can enjoy her fancy car that gets her to her miserable job.

I know what you’re thinking. “Alice (or whatever your real name is), it’s easier said than done. I’m stuck in my job. I can’t do what I want. I’m too old. I’m not smart enough.”

Did you sign a paper saying you can’t leave? No? Then shush. (If you did sign a paper like that, find a lawyer.) Unless you’re wanting to become a doctor at 96, you’re not too old. Don’t have the skills? Pick up a book. People write about everything, and you can learn anything from a book and some YouTube.

And if you can’t get paid for doing what ya love, volunteer. Do it for free. Make it a hobby. You think I make a damn dime off of putting my brain stew into words for some people to enjoy? Nope. But there’s nothing better than getting a text from someone you haven’t spoken to in months:

When are you going to write some more stuff?

Ahhh. Worth it.

And if you must have that job you hate so you can afford your car, so be it. But you have to add something else in there. Something that makes you want to get up every morning without feeling the need to tell Facebook it’s Monday. Again.  


I’m almost incapable of being serious. Almost.

This is the time of year when no one has any flipping idea what they’re doing. Kids are wondering why they have to go back to school to listen to another monotone teacher, only to find out that they’ll probably be working at Dunkin Donuts for half of their life.

College students are realizing they still don’t know what they’re even going to college for. Some are considering dropping out to work at Twin Peaks. Others are just trying to find careers that allow them to smoke weed.

College graduates are still working in aforementioned Dunkin Donuts. 

Parents don’t know what they’re going to do without their school-aged kids begging to watch Phineas and Ferb all day (hell, I’ll watch Phineas and Ferb by myself).

And everyone else is just questioning their own existence.

I participated in my first graduate-level conversation today. When it was over, I looked in the mirror (more like the reflection on my phone) like I was the main character in a soap opera. I have no idea what I’m doing.

I wanted to be an emergency room nurse my whole life. Until two years ago when it backfired. So then I wanted to be an English professor. And then a doctor. And then I wanted to be a lawyer. And then a teacher again. I’ve changed my mind four times in two years. I think I’ve finally settled on being an English teacher. Mostly because I’ve already paid for the program. Also because I’m running out of life.

Two days ago:

Me: Maybe I don’t want to be a teacher. Maybe I should just be a doctor. I do like blood.

Ellie (she’s eight): Mommy! You want to be everything. You have to just pick something! You are so weird.

I’ve got two great little children, a college degree, a good looking boyfriend, a funny mom, and an ancient (yet running) car. But every two weeks or so, I go through a quarter-life crisis in which I nearly drop out of grad school and move to Nicaragua to become a hobo.


I hope you didn’t start reading this thinking I would give you some sort of advice on how to tackle the quarter-life crisis. I don’t have any advice, even if it seems like I have my crap together. I recommend you turn to Google. Google always tells me if I’m failing or succeeding.



But seriously. Just look at this picture. And the second you think that your life is the only one headed down an invisible path, remember that almost everyone else is thinking the same thing about theirs.

Extinguished Humor

Do you see that goat? He didn’t crack one smile while I gawked at him on his mountain. He looked at me like the idiot I was. Last night, I was told that I have a snuff sense of humor, much like that goat, I’m assuming. I may have a word-related degree, but the vocabulary portion of my brain is pretty unfurnished, so I had to look the word up. Snuff=extinguish (as in, extinguish a candle…no more flame). It seems that to some people (more like one drunk person discussing Pokémon), my humor is like a blown out candle. A useless, charred piece of…skinny candle rope.

Personally, I feel that my frisky comedic mindset is like a blossoming bosom that keeps going in for plastic surgery. Always growing, but eventually getting a little out of control, until someone tells you you’re too big, so you reduce things a bit.


Anyway, I appreciated the attempted attack on my humor, because now we have weird analogies and a post written for your (or just my) entertainment. Let’s all take a moment to thank him.

Being that the commenter from last night was probably drunk, his comment immediately made me think of those people who say they don’t need alcohol to have fun. They’re right; it is completely possible to have fun without drinking. I had a fun last night without alcohol, and I’m sure he had fun with alcohol. But we all know that people get pretty damn funny (and funny=fun) when the harmful fluid is involved. Or the complete opposite of funny when someone ends up in jail…

Had I been drinking, I might have found his conversation amusing. Who knows. But I don’t drink while I write, and look at me go! (Whoa, whoa, reduce that bosom, Alice). But, when I do consume the juices, prepare for a six-pack. Not a six-pack of beer. A six-pack of abs.

See? I don’t have a snuff sense of humor.  (That’s not even how one is supposed to used that word)


Sweet Passionate Talent

Here’s a picture of me. If I knew how to draw, that picture would actually resemble me. Unfortunately, I lack talent in the drawing area, as well as the music area (although, I can sing like Adele when I’m in my car and it’s dark out. Heck, I might actually be an undiscovered superstar for all we know). I cannot paint, and I cannot play any instruments. I can’t even do one push up. Doing my makeup well consists of an extra coat of mascara and some tinted Burt’s Bees chapstick. I have no sense of style; getting dressed up means throwing on the pair of glasses that aren’t scratched, along with some non-faded yoga pants or jeans that actually lift my buns. If I cook, I have to follow a recipe, so I’m pretty talentless in that, as well.

I’ve got a few very talented friends on Facebook. One girl I grew up with holds every talent imaginable. She can sing, act, play instruments, climb mountains, etc. And she does it all with such passion. She picked up painting a few weeks ago. Let’s just say…her recent work is a masterpiece. Bob Ross status. Little tress included and all. Some people are more talented than others. And it sucks. For the untalented ones, at least.

But that’s what brought me to this…blog (I hate that word). I was driving in my car one day, wondering what the hell I could do to make myself a little more interesting. I wanted a sweet passionate talent. That’s what happens when you date a guy who was in a relatively successful band, who also makes videos for a hunting channel, who could also be a world-renowned chef…Anyway, as I thought through all of the talents listed above, I hit a wall (not literally; my car is fine). While I wish I held the talents of the girl from my childhood, or my rock star boyfriend, I wasn’t gifted with those abilities, and I have absolutely no patience to gain them. Seriously, the only thing I have patience for is school.

However! I did go to college for writing. And I’ve been writing since I was in second grade. What better way to test my one and only talent than to post it on the internet for the entire world to bash? Have at it, new buddies. My other talent is not giving a crap. 👍