I graduated college, found a job, call it “my parents’ house,” and owe money for taxes, but get more in my return.

Adulthood terrifies me. Every single day surpasses the last in responsibility being mounted on my tiny plate. Who has time for all of this? Where did the years of care-free fun go? Well, I know that they were spent drinking and laughing and running round Isla Vista with my best friends. Or crying, which also filled at least fifty-percent of my time there. On our last night in that disgusting, over-crowded, peach monstrosity we called home, we found an unopened bottle of plastic-handle vodka (what was that even doing in our house, anyway), put on our stoles from graduation the week before, and brought it down to the beach to re-tell our favorite memories and thank the IV gods for the best friends we’d ever had, before taking swig and pouring some out for the friends that didn’t make it. So, sometimes it was happy tears.

If someone told me that in ten years my life would be exactly the same, I would be mortified. Change is good.



It’s funny, I’ve spent years telling everyone, and telling myself that I hate people. I built this whole narrative for myself; I don’t have many friends, I like to keep to myself, I love to be alone. Of course, I know that even I cannot know my entire self. 
I always used to say that I didn’t  have a lot of friends. I say it out loud and to other people all the time, but it’s weird because it’s just not true. My middle school experience was not the…typical middle school experience. Obviously I still cringe when I look at pictures of my 12 year old self, but I’m not one of those people who looks back at all the misfortune those loser bullies caused them in junior high. The kids at my junior high don’t have the pleasure of looking back and seeing that they’re better than the bullies, because I was one of them. One of seven grade A shit starters. My friends and I were, rude, insubordinate, and above all, ruthless. Our sixth grade Literature teacher left after our class. Then our seventh grade English teacher, followed by our eighth grade History teacher. If we were that bad to our instructors, imagine how we were with our peers. I’m sure we were a nightmare. In fact, I know we were. 
Not too long ago one of my cousins, who went to the local high school, asked me if I knew some kid who went to high school with her. I told her I didn’t, and asked why. She said they’d added each other on Facebook and he saw we were in pictures together, and asked how we knew each other. He told her that in middle school he’d had a huge crush on me, but I was just so mean and terrible. He hates me now. I told her I had no idea who he was. I still don’t remember what his name is. 
That’s how my friends were. We were awful, but we raised each other. I saw some of them, a week ago. That’s a ten year strong friendship. We were never the most well loved people in school, but we loved each other. 
High school was similar, with the Cult. I’ve told this story before. None of it mattered because here we sit, four years out of high school and as close as ever. Six of us, paired off within the group. They’re my best friends. The story I’ve barely told before, though, was before the Cult. We only became friends our senior year. Before that I had the three that graduated before I did. They’ve coached me through life, taking every milestone step two years before I had to. I still love them like the older siblings I’ve never had. Even after they left, they’d visit me, come back and let me know about all the things they’d learned in college. I’m grateful to them because when I found the two that I needed after my mentors and best friends left, I was able to do the same for them. 
And then there’s 420. My family away from home. The people who made my Isla Vista my new home. How many of us are there? How many people do I count among the best people UCSB has given me? Eleven. In that group, never mind anyone who isn’t in the weird club we accidentally formed freshman year. That’s a lot of people to love. 
I always say I don’t have many friends, but I’ve spent this year with the best friends I’ve had in my life. All of them. They’ve spent this year laughing with me, crying with me, getting drunk, eating out, taking pictures, going on hikes, and baking cookies.
I spent this year learning so much about myself, like every other year and every other person in the world. I think maybe the most important thing I learned this year is that I am most definitely not the person I thought I was. 
Happy 2015


I’m not going to pretend that I’m alone and tragic and broken and just now realizing my purpose in life.


I’m not alone. I have friends who surround me everywhere I go. Not just people to talk to and hang out with. At home, I have the Cult, sort of. We love each other, and know each other, and pick up exactly where we left off and it’s like we never spread across the country and only see each other four times a year. I miss them all the time, and it’s because they are the closest thing to sisters I’ve ever had. They all have sisters, but I don’t, and they love me like family. I have my best friends who’ve known me inside and out for over a decade. We were best friends in third grade and remain so now, and when I’m doing my makeup and Jess is sitting there she says it’s like looking in a mirror. We raised each other.

In IV, I’m surrounded by the biggest and best family I could have asked for. They’re my best friends, who stop going opposite ways on the bike bath to chat about how my day is going even if I saw them for breakfast and even if I am going to see them for dinner. I’ve spent the better part of three years loving them and living with them, surrounded by unspoken love and friendship.


I love my family, but you don’t pick your family; you pick your friends, and the ones that I have in my life have made sure that I am never alone. So no, I am not lonely or alone.


I remember when the most devastating thing in my world was a boy leaving me and me not knowing when he would come back. I thought that was the biggest tragedy three separate times before–

There are more tragic things than a boy leaving you. There are friends that die before they see twenty one. There are friends that die when it could have been you, if you’d turned left instead of going straight.


Anyone can have a big revelation that big things need to change. Anyone can get a shitty retail job, or band ambassador gig, or drive an uber. Those aren’t big things. But then again, neither is writing to big time donors or writing occasional articles for a newspaper that only reaches one or two counties.


You know what’s big? Changing lives. It’s the only thing I’ve cared about over the last two years. Figures, the only thing I would love would be the thing that takes up the most time with absolutely no pay. I’m okay with that though. A hundred and eleven (twelve? it’s technically Sunday) weeks later and it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.


I don’t know. Who does.


What a perfect number.
What a beautiful, perfect number. 
Uniform, not quite prime, but perfect. 
One hundred and eleven weeks ago was the last time I think, at least according to the grid. Me, you, and our best friends. The two who are there for us through thick and thin, dressed up silly, but so are we. Happy. And so are we. 
I am happy, one hundred and eleven weeks ago. It’s kind of obscene to look at from that point on, because at a hundred and nine weeks ago, it looks like I hadn’t slept in ages. At a hundred and seven weeks I look noticeably thinner than a month ago, and at a hundred and two weeks, there are bones that were not visible before. 
What a difference ten weeks can make. Or a year. Or two years. What a long time to look back and realize that’s the last night of bliss. You know what they say about bliss. 
One hundred and eleven weeks is a long time to be without bliss. 

Annual (II)

It’s going to happen, and I am not going to survive it. I can feel it. After so many times, I feel like a dog barking before an earthquake. I can tell it’s coming, and even though it feels like my whole world will implode, I know I’ve made it before. It’s not as if New York City burned down to the ground once you drove away. I don’t know how I’ll make it through but I do know I’ve done it before. 


  • I sat around and watched a Netflix original documentary with my friends about Rockefeller and Carnegie, and discussed the viability of different presidential candidates during, because two of the current ones (Trump and Fiorina) were commenters during it.

When did we get so old? I remember sitting in one of our dorm rooms playing “We are the Champions,” drinking Martinelli’s mixed with Takka – because we didn’t have the resources to buy champagne at eighteen – when President Obama won his reelection. Now we’re all twenty one and in less than a month I can finally post a picture with Spencer with the caption, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been waiting an entire year to misquote this song.”

  • I have an interview with the number one newspaper in Santa Barbara County next week.

I told one of my best friends and she said, “A newspaper? Do you want to be a journalist?” No, I don’t want to be a journalist. Except maybe. Because I don’t know what I want to be. Also, maybe I just want another job that doesn’t pay me, did you ever think of that Fridds? Because that’s exactly what I need, another responsibility on top of actually having a job, working in the RiVR lab, scribing in the parks, and working at the Women’s Clinic for Doctor’s Without Walls despite the fact that I don’t even want to be a doctor. No, none of that feels like enough, because apparently I also want to intern at the Independent.

    Except, I’ve had this picture in my head for what my life is going to look like five years from now, and the first step in the story that I wrote for myself was writing for the Independent. I’ve only had one formula for my entire life so far, and it’s worked for pretty much everything I’ve done. Step one, be super talented and sell yourself well. Step two, get really, really lucky. There was one person in my life who got everything wrong except one scenario where he summed up how my life is and will be for the next twenty years: he asked me what I was going to do with my life, I told him I didn’t know; he took a good once over of me and said, “Whatever. You’ll be fine.”

    • My house (and I) are currently at the pressed-for-time-and-also-broke level of I just stole toilet paper from campus

    I don’t even think I have very much commentary on this one, except for one ply is better than no ply.

    • The woman who makes the most money annually in the office I work in is currently playing Hotlline Bling

    She makes a lot of money. I would love to be able to have her job someday, but I am not nearly personable or high energy as she is. She’s also one of the friendliest people I’ve ever met, and always takes time to talk to the student assistants even when she’s running out the door, late to meet donors with the kind of money to get STEM buildings named after them. She also just brought a growler into work. Working in this office has proved to be one of the most fruitful work experiences I’ve ever had. Plus, there’s an arrowhead water cooler that I can constantly refill my HydroFlask with, and the Buchannan coffee cart is down one flight of stairs to the right.

    • Getting trashed with Gorty on Thursdays has become a weekly tradition

    We try to get ONE beer at Pizza my Heart or ONE drink at Study Hall and the next thing I know we’re drunk. I keep getting asked why we do each other so many favors or why I ever lend him money when I know I won’t get it back, and it’s because he saved our lives. Not potentially, not maybe. Actually. I wanted to go to IV Deli. He wanted to go to K&B. So we went to K&B, and because of that, we weren’t in front of IV Deli at 9:42 on May 23rd, 2014. Instead, we were inside Keg & Bottle at 9:45 when the police came by telling them to shut the doors and move away from the windows, people had been shot on Pardall. And so I lend him money when he needs it, and we get drunk together every week.

    • I’m going to dye my hair again, and I lost my nose stud over Halloween

    So now I have a hoop that my boyfriend hates and that I love, and I think I’m going to keep it. And I’m going to bleach my hair and dye it cool colors because I can. And I have spent so many months of the last two years both trying to emulate and contrast myself so much that I’m stuck in a cycle of doing things deemed edgy and also cutting carbs. Ugh.