Fries or Salad

A blog for the regular "Is there such a thing as normal?" crowd. Here you'll find endless wisdom, dry wit, and caustic observations. Normal is boring. Travel more, question more, do less, think more. Not all those who wander are lost, some just wonder.

[friesorsalad]

Something happened... and it's changed everything

Guys, I woke up this morning and I think my life changed. A lot. Not for the better, but for the clearer.

I woke up hung-over to the cows udders, utterly despairing the state of humanity/my head/my liver/what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life/is this real?!/what is real, really?!/what if we live in the Matrix?!/I need coconut water/maybe I should move to Thailand/I should check Facebook.

I may…

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[friesorsalad]

The Great Canadian Shame

Every single Canadian needs to watch this clip.

Canada has a long history of colonial practices when it comes to the First Indigenous Peoples of Turtle Island. It begins with weaponized disease and religious coercion, forcible removal of children, policies of assimilation, erasure of language and culture, removal of rights, forced patriarchy, the creation of arbitrary legislation that denied…

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[friesorsalad]

What planet are we dating on?!

In keeping with the grain of individual sustainability and happiness, I’m going to rant a little bit. Is it me or has dating gone completely down the old porcelain squatter? I want to take a moment to acknowledge that there are many different and equal types of dating and the following rant is not an all-encompassing “every man on Earth” rant but rather a tirade of personal experience and…

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Re-figuring this life

I’m back. Different, but back.

It’s been a couple years since I first wrote and published, “Twenty something ways..” on this blog.  It’s been quite some time since I published anything. You may find yourself asking, “Why now?” or “Where has she been?” or even, “Why the shit should I care that she’s back when Kim Kardashian is breaking the interweb!?!?”

I can’t answer that. I could embark on a…

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[friesorsalad]

The next time someone offers you a quarter...

The things you see when out to dinner are astounding: From the way a restaurant works to that couple that's quietly breaking up in the corner to the wife who drank one too many martinis AGAIN. Which is why I like going out to dinner by myself. Partly because I work in the mind-numbing din of a busy bar and partly because I like to watch humanity over food and drink. The truest flaws of wo/man express themselves over the basic needs of feed and drink. This evening I had the supreme pleasure of a jaw dropping experience. I went to a solo sushi session armed with a Vonnegut and a 2-day craving for sashimi. Settled into a corner two top I went about my business. I was soon neighboured by a young couple. They had all the exuberance and fast-talking high-pitched volume you'd expect from the young and the happy. They had all the affectations one would expect from young people lost in a big world. What they lacked was tact. Actually, what SHE lacked was etiquette. Loud discussions of inappropriate and private subjects An unabashed narcissistic love for self. Example, "I don't know why you'd deprive yourself of my beauty but apparently you are." That statement accompanied by a pout, made in an I'm-joking-but-not-really tone because her boyfriend turned his head briefly. He asked if she wanted to stay over and she replied that she would but only if he paid for her train ticket. Then she took off her shoes and started rubbing his crotch with her bare feet. Until he told her her feet were stinky. Of course she giggled when she realized her crotch might be showing through her short skirt and uncrossed legs. She asked him if he wanted to look and check. I disregarded all this even though I was about as far away from their table as my elbow is from my wrist. Young love. Sometimes it is brazen. Other times it's cute. What can ya do? What got me was at the end. As I was leaving I noticed a quarter between me and the young gentleman on the bench. I asked him if it was his. He said no. I laughed and said it must be a lucky quarter and told him to keep it. He and I laughed. I stood and while I was walking away I heard her say, "Thanks. We'll be sure to make good use of your quarter." Her tone was dripping With sarcasm and bitchiness that caused my jaw to fly open with such velocity I thought it had unhinged itself. When I was young I threw out some dimes and pennies. My father saw me and with the typical wisdom of an immigrant who has lived in poverty told me that the girl who throws out change will always be poor. Because a penny may not be much but a hundred pennies is a dollar and a hundred dollars is a lot of money to some people. To this day I hoard change with a ferocity that has translated into a fair bit of savings. It is the only reason I've ever travelled, treated myself, or bought someone a gift. I respect money. So to the girl who scoffed at a quarter after asking her boyfriend to pay for her $8 train ticket. Money is money, honey. And I hope no one ever gives you a quarter again. Although if you had 31 more you could pay your own way.

[friesorsalad]

Where are we now?

This is one of those post-close night shifts where I got home at 4am and the birds were chirping and I sat there, on my front steps, trying to figure out the meaning of all this. This is a working idea - it isn’t concrete yet - but it is an idea nonetheless. If I don’t get it out, it’ll consume my thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder if the extent of the reach of the patriarchal hand is fully acknowledged or if we, collectively, pretend everything is perfect.

What suffers? Well, the environment as it is raped, pilaged, burnt and denigrated to feed a societal need for more when we already have more than we know what to do with; the rest of the world as we destroy its cultures and beliefs with ours, force ourselves upon it despite its obvious anger, its everygrowing backlash of storms and fiery droughts and belittled sense of self; Faith, morality, values are erased as we judge everything adn everyone at face value, at the most surface and superficial conception of its monetary worth. But, when will we stop and realise money is not a real thing? Glitz and sparkles and things are made up.

Our collective psyche suffers as we drug ourselves into numbness. Lately, movies that portray governments drugging their societies into submission, sedating the masses and their collective unrest don’t seem like such a far off concept anymore.

Ironically enough, governments don’t have to in our age, we do it willingly to ourselves. We are so uncomfortable with what we have become - individually and as a whole - the monstrous parasitic six-billion strong blob of consumption we have grown into makes us squirm in our seats, in our beds late at night, that we WANT to be numb.

We are so disjointed from our true nature, our inner beliefs, that we voluntarily kill ourselves slowly, drown our souls in alcohol, huff happiness up our noses - we pay for poison, we seek it out! We make long trips to doctor’s offices and spend countless hours in waiting rooms to spend countless dollars (underpaid and undervalue work dollars) just so we don’t have to feel like we feel, so we can stop thinking for a second. The thing is we pretend its temporary, that it’s just us, but we know, in our collective human soul, that it’s all wrong.

Big corporations and powerful governments just laugh and sit back in their leather chairs. The joke is on us! They have managed to create an unhappiness so deep and universal, a need for delusion so profound, a loneliness so soul-permeating, that we do the work for them, that we buy things and consume things with our very own hard-earned dollars to feed an internal addiction.

You know who else suffers? Women and minorities. Everywhere. Even here. While women’s rights and racial equality have improved exponentially from where we stood a hundred years ago, we are far from perfect. Worldwide women are raped, abused, sexualised, and turned into just another ‘thing’ to be consumed and kept. Of course marriages don’t work - they often serve a symbolic purpose, something to indicate success, not love. Seduction capital is everything. The goal is success, success to have a beautiful life and a beautiful wife. Unfortunately so many men out there seem to seek out vapid and acquiescing women. Strong, demanding women are referred to as “bitches.” Quiet and meek women who turn a blind eye to bad behaviour and less-than-commedable motivations are rewarded and called “feminine.”

We treat people, friendship, love and family as “things” now. Things to be accumulated. Things to be bought. Quantity now surpasses quality when it comes to our personal lives. How many friends do you have on Facebook? It doesn’t matter that you sit at home alone at night miserable and sad, as long as you appear to have a million followers on Instagram. It doesn’t matter that you never fell in love with your husband because “he looks really good on paper.”

The objectification of women is over, we are now just the object. We are bought and sold at auction - in bars, on the streets, on websites - in a fashion no better than a livestock auction at the Royal Winter Fair. Walk into a busy bar on a weekend night and you can almost feel them taking your waist measurement with their eyes, can almost here the auctioneer listing your attributes as a potential fling.

Sadly, we’ve also been socialized to fall over each other, scrambling for the chance to stand on the auction block. We preen ourselves endlessly, drape ourselves in desireable clothes and livery no farmer would ever dream of subjecting his prize pig to. And again, the system has worked so well that we do it to ourselves.

We’ve been taught that this is freedom, that this is our own self-guided behaviour, that WE are making these choices willingly just to “feel good about ourselves.” Why do so many of us feel insufficient? Why do so many of us suffer through abusive relationships because we feel we don’t deserve better, why do so many of us kill our bodies through laxatives and starvation. If we are so empowered, why do so many of us feel so powerless that we seek to control through addiction?

Because we are marketed to. Because it benefits someone, somewhere, by raising profit margins and stock value. “Be beautiful,” sells makeup. “Be yourself,” sells countless mass-produced items of jewellry, accessories, magazines, and other ‘tools of personalization.’ “Be healthy,” sells gym memberships, diet pills, and work-out clothes. Hair salons, highlights, shoes, manicures, “picking colours,” are all carefully planned ‘symbols of individuality’ that have been created for us, marketed to us, and cloaked in the guise of expression. We end up spending money to replicate each other, all look like varieties of the same prototype, Barbie with a million different outfits. Then we compete to be the best animal on the block. It’s not our fault, but we have to take control.

Those are my thoughts. That’s what I thought about after standing behind a bar for ten hours on a Sunday night. Because I had guys calling me “baby,” that barely know me. Because I had guys make dirty comments. Because I had a guy who said to me, “Really? You’re going to give me that look when I’m holding the tip-percentage machine in my hand?”

Because someone said to me, “They’re not going to respect you. They just want to look at you. They want to f#%$ your brains out. And that’s what they pay for.”

…. Shit.

[friesorsalad]

Dreams

Why is it so easy to follow the crowd? The latest trend? Other peoples’ lives on Facebook? And so hard to look at yourself and follow your dreams? Why is it so easy to give a friend that motivational speech when he/she is feeling hopeless but so hard to say a couple nice words to yourself?

I wake up in the middle of the night scared that my time has irreparably slipped away and I haven’t DONE anything with it. I want to - need to - change something but so often I find myself endlessly repeating the same self-debilitating behaviour.

And so often the unknown fears, the feeling of failure, the suffocating loneliness just end up producing such a panicked state that I drink to numb my soul. Another wasted night, another wasted bottle of wine, another wasted girl cowering from her dreams. Hiding in the false security that a couple hours of numbness provides.

The question is: how do I change that? How do I alter this pathetic, useless course I’m on? What do those people have that are just doing it? Taking risks? Following their hearts?

Confidence. They have confidence.

I suppose tomorrow I will get up and try, TRY, again to change everything. Eventually, after dozens of failed attempts, something has got to stick.

As Voltaire said, “Change everything, except your loves.”

[friesorsalad]

20/20

"No, no," she giggled, "I can’t go to Paris. I must stay behind for my man. I’ve got to make sure he loves me, what if I get old and alone and don’t find love again?" I think I love him, ran across her mind. He’s got the nice car, the nice job, and he loves me too, maybe.

"No, no," he said, "I can’t go to Paris, I must stay behind for the man. For my job is on the line and I need to make money, no time for vacation, it’s not part of the plan." This is what I’m supposed to do right? He wondered at night while she slept beside him. He stared at the ceiling dreading the morning, but well, it was part of the plan.

"No, no. We can’t go right now we’re about to get married, we need a house and a car and a cottage and a boat. We need to get a mortgage and a joint account and, well, you need to spend money to make money, right?" "Next year," they whispered.

But we can’t go now we must work more, they thought. A bigger house, another car, keep up with the Joneses, the Gates, the Kardashians, more stuff should be bought. And the next years kept coming and going and straying. Paris will always be there, they said, at dinners and banquets and coffee dates with friends. The future depends on the work we put in now, everyone knows that.

Now think of the kids they need fancy toys, to keep up with the other girls and boys.

Go, go, go, go. No time for Paris, when it’s time we will know.

Fancy schools for the children, RESPs, RRSPs, GICs - more letters than dollars was always the case.

Then it was over. The kids had moved on. The house had been sold. Everyone was busy so they tucked away the old. In a home they spent their days. Hard earned money and hard spent years paid for all the solitude and quiet time and lonely nights and annual visits they could wish for.

Eventually even money could not buy what they lacked, so fickle was time. It ran and it crawled and it stopped and it sped up, but it was never permanent, just an oddity that always confounded, sneaking away when they turned their backs.

In the end they discovered a surprise, a mistake they had not caught.

As they lay dying they were consumed with a thought. They didn’t remember the cars or the rings, all the pretty little things.

Oh we could have had anything, but settled for everything.

We could have had everything, but settled for anything.

"I wish we had seen the Eiffel Tower," they sighed.

[friesorsalad]

A tribute to Hemingway

As the legend goes, Ernest Hemingway made a bet over lunch that he could write a short story in under ten words. He scribbled on a napkin the following sentence: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." True or not the legend remains a testament to the power of the written word and to Hemingway's literary craftsmanship. A true wordsmith.

[friesorsalad]

10 Old Fashioned Dating Habits We Should Make Cool Again

1. Coming to the door to pick someone up.

2. Trying to dress really nicely for a date.

3. Bringing flowers or other tokens of affection to the first date.

4. Going dancing that’s not grinding on a grimy club floor.

5. Straightforwardly asking someone out and not calling it “hanging out.”

6. Additionally, being clear about when you’re “going steady.”

7. Romantic gestures like writing poems.

8. Turning electronics off and just being with one another.

9. The general concept of asking permission for things.

10. Not assuming sex is to be had at any point in time.

by Kate Bailey

[friesorsalad]

20-Something. But the actual, internal, funny-in-a-scary way, version.

More than a year ago I started this blog to document what it was like to be a bartender, server, 20-something member of the “lost-generation,” woman, sister, friend, working-class shift worker, and survive one’s 20’s.

A year later I know less now than I did then. Actually, scratch that, I knew nothing then and I’m still just as confused now. What happened to my twenties? Am I really in the sunset years? Is thirty really on the horizon? Can I see it there, in the distance, mocking me and my lack of achievement?

Back then I made a list about “20 Ways to know you are 20-something.”

It was funny. It was cute in its ability to capture the surface version of the quintessential 20-something. We really did those things! We really look that way to the outside observer! We really brunch! We really party!! We are social-media infused, generation-me!! At least superficially. But it’s not all glitz, glimmer, yoga and Eggs Benedicts, is it now?

Today I am going to revise that list.  This one’s going to read more like, "20 ways to know you’re 20-something on the inside, late at night, lying in your bed, panic-breathing while your heart beats a million times a minute."

I’m going to do it, and I’m going to start this blog up again, because for the longest time I thought it was just me.  I secretly skulked over to therapy and wondered why, why, I could not get my shit together while everyone else was brilliantly happy and quickly on their way to dream jobs, dream husbands, dream lives, dream homes, and money.  I lay awake at night not being able to sleep, cuddling a bottle of wine (or 3), miserably choke-sobbing on my bathroom floor.  And I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.  Sure, I went through a devastating break-up, but I could bounce back.  Sure I was waitressing/bartending, but I was making money and working with my friends, so it wasn’t the worst.  Sure I drank a lot, but so did everyone else. I had freedom, running water, electricity, and clothes on my back.  I had no problems, really, and the majority of the world liked to remind me daily that i had no RIGHT to feel so depressed all the time. But I did/do. I firmly believe that there is something, something that is affecting our generation in a way that preceding generations haven’t gone through.  The question remains: what is it? What exactly is/was impeding my ability to function in this world?

These questions, and many others, come up daily for a lot of people. If this is you, don’t worry you’re not alone.  

1) You’ve deleted/reinstated Facebook/Instagram/Twitter 26,000 times: because of a bad breakup. Or because the 368th picture of Suzy Appleby’s ginormous diamond engagement ring made you feel lonely and single and like you’re going to die alone. You don’t actually know Suzy, but she knows Gerry,who knows Sandra, who knows Lisa, who sat beside you in first-year English.  Also because babies on Facebook have led to late-night Google searches on IVF and left you wondering if you could have a baby and waitress at the same time. Lastly because last weekend someone posted a picture of their private booth with the Kardashians at a club that you’ve never even heard of, in your city.  You saw it while you were washing beer off your feet after you finished your bar shift. Eff Facebook.

2) 8-day hangovers/booze blues/I actually threw up the NEXT DAY?!/”I’m not drinking anymore”: “I’m not drinking anymore.” You know you’ve said it… Especially last Sunday when you were writhing in bed, curtains drawn, tears staining your pillow, empty bottle of Advil (extra strength, obviously) in hand, miserably wondering what exactly you were doing with your life.  Thoughts like: “Great, another night drinking, what are you doing with yourself? What have you accomplished? Drink some more, boozebag! Now you’re turning into Uncle Jim who has 12 DUI’s,” make regular hangover appearances. You look at yourself in the mirror and weep tears of vodka. That, and for the first time in your life you feel like you have regrets that span more than the length of a weekend. Oh, and you throw up the next day.  

3) Regrets that span more than the length of last weekend. And the shitty realization you have no one else to blame for your mistakes anymore.

4) When bartending/being a barista/ working at that trendy Speak-easy doesn’t seem like such a good option anymore. Particularly when you used to like it because of all the free days and great schedule. Then you called/texted all your friends and they were working because it was Monday and they’ve moved on with their lives. 

5) Every bad relationship choice you have ever made surfaces on a Tuesday night during yoga and you crawl home to cry yourself to sleep. In your bed. Alone. Again.

6) You still brunch!!! But my goodness, have you started to look terrifying in the mornings. 

7) You’ve traveled the world at least once, or gone on a foreign exchange, or volunteered in Cambodia. To find yourself, obviously….

Obviously you came back with  more questions than answers and have no effing clue who you are or what you want. 

8) Girls’/Boys’ nights have become nostalgic. You spend more time drinking wine and rehashing the crazy memories of your hey-day than making new bad decisions. Mostly because you are suddenly acutely aware of your mortality and that any minute an errant truck can come careening around the corner and kill you while you walk to the bank. Or, is that just me? 

9) You just found out what FTW means.  Actually. I just did. 

10) Now you understand why people use the “Do Not Disturb” function on your phone.  That, or you’ve turned it off completely in the last month. 

11) You’ve spent many a night lying in bed, exhausted but wide awake, wondering if you’re in the right job/house/city/career/relationship/family/if you should have had pizza today/am I ever going to buy a house?/No one will ever marry an old hag/ohemgee did I leave the stove on? Because everyone I know has anxiety. About everything. All the time.

12) When you eat a carrot your jeans don’t fit anymore. Forget pizza, water somehow makes you gain weight.

13) You’ve talked about anxiety more times in the last year than anything else.  

14) Sometimes you just want to go home and crawl into your mom’s lap and make her play with your hair and pretend you are 6.

15) Most times you just want to be 6 again. Period.

16) Remember that wild night at the club rubbing sweaty bodies with 1000’s of throbbing, pulsating, hip, sexy young thangs?  Me neither.  I sat at home drinking a bottle of wine in my sweatpants. Reading Harry Potter. Again. 

17) You find yourself telling people at work, “I remember when we didn’t have a computer in the house!” And they, being 17, look at you with disgust and say, “What did you even do? Ew.”

18) You say things that start with, “I remember…”

19) The constant debate in your head that goes from, “I want to go off the grid and save the environment because WE can still change things,” right to, “Fuck it. There’s no hope. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to afford a Range Rover.”

20) The nagging suspicion that your parents’ generation really, really messed up on this whole environment thing.

21) You care/know/want to know/are willing to spend money to avoid all the stuff they’ve started putting in food. You want to eat better, you want to be responsible, and you are willing to pay for it.

22) Wine. Is. God.

23) You don’t have nearly as many friends. Like, maybe 2. But by and far the ones you do have are solely responsible for your psychological/emotional/physical survival thus far. You love them dearly, and will be friends for life. 

24) After all is said and done, sometimes you wake up and think “I can do this.” And you feel better… For an hour. But what a glorious hour it is!!!!

25)… Wine. Is. Still. God. 

We can do this.

[friesorsalad]

Affluenza - This is a Joke, Right?!

I woke up this morning and I thought I must still be asleep. Or, I was in a nightmare.

This wasn’t actually in the news, was it? These people aren’t for real, are they?

No, despite rubbing my eyes, dousing my face in ice-cold water, pinching myself, I was actually awake.

Affluenza – the NON-clinical diagnosis of rich kids who are entitled brats, do awful things with little-to-no moral fiber in their bodies, no engrained values or empathy for other people, who take no responsibility for their actions, and then whose parents can afford to get them out of trouble – was being debated as a real condition. This was actually a matter of discourse for the day.

Rich kids get away with everything: fact. But labeling ‘Affluenza’ a mental health condition that stems from being spoiled brats? 

Hold the phones. Real-life adults are talking about this like it is a thing? Ethan Couch killed four people and got off from any real punishment because his lawyers argued – allow me to pause with disbelief for a second- his lawyers argued that he was rich and got everything he wanted growing up; that his parents neglected to teach him limits; that it was actually his parents’ fault because they gave him all the fruits of their riches, etc., Because he was raised spoiled, they argued, he was not criminally responsible for his actions? Wait, there’s more - a judge accepted this as a real diagnosis? And this kid is free to go?

Never mind that he got wasted and got behind the wheel of a truck with 7 people in it. Never mind that his blood alcohol was three times over the legal limit. Never mind that he was under-age. Never mind that he ploughed into 4 unsuspecting people – humans – and took their lives (that’s referred to as murder for all of us lower-class folk out there). Never mind all that trivial nonsense. He was rich! He was spoiled! He couldn’t have known better! It’s not his fault!

And now people on the television and in the media and in the news are skirting around the issue like it could possibly be a thing? Like they have some moral responsibility to examine both sides of the issue of Affluenza?

Is it just me or has this world gone bananas? Affluenza is NOT a real mental health condition. Right? Or am I actually living in the twilight zone?

Since when does growing up with everything at your disposal mean that you are disabled in some sense – exonerated from exercising any sort of moral agency in decision making?  You can kill people and get away with it?

Oh, wait, yes you can.

I have known it, have seen it. No matter what trouble these kids get in – and the trouble seems to get exponentially worse the higher the income level – money can get them out of it.

I once fell in with the wrong crowd. I know what you’re thinking: “She must have fallen in with thugs, gangsters, drug dealers, violent offenders, guys on motorcycles with no jobs, long hair and tattoos.” Wrong. I made friends with the rich kids. Some ended up being best friends and were the nicest people – generous, kind - I have ever met. But it’s not those few that concern me. It’s the ones like Ethan Couch.

What a hefty price I paid for that little foray into la-la land. I was never allowed to forget that I was poor. Some of the boys in the group made sure to make me feel unwelcome, ugly, and grotesque because of my lower-middle-class standing. I felt dirty - like a rat carrying the Black Plague.  Some of the girls met me 400 times over the course of five years and still could not be bothered to remember my name.

I am loathe to generalize, so I won’t. But what some of those kids did to others, nay, to each other will haunt my memories forever.

I digress.

I witnessed, firsthand, what money can buy: freedom. Freedom from criminal responsibility, freedom from labeled a criminal when you kill people. The freedom to do whatever the hell you want without ever having to pay the price.

Just off the top of my head, I can think of 3 or 4 true stories involving rich kids doing stupid things when they’re drunk and getting off without so much as a pencil mark on their record. I’m not talking a little bit of vandalism. I am talking real crimes. With real damage. Drugs. Violence. Cars. Drinking. Actions that should have incurred real consequences - except those consequences never came. I am pretty sure many of the perpetrators of these crimes work in high-powered positions across the city.

This may seem like I’m being a bit harsh.  I’m not. I understand that people work hard to make money and some people are extremely successful. I’m happy for those people. But kids like Ethan Couch that get everything handed to them on a silver platter go around KILLING PEOPLE (KILLING PEOPLE!), and don’t have to worry about consequences. That really gets my socks twisted.

The whole thing reeks of the aristocracy. It reeks of the 18th century.  Want to examine the growing gap between the rich and poor? Well, when the rich start being exempt from the laws of the land, we’re in dangerous territory. We’re about to all become peasants, and they to feast like kings. After all, the laws of the land no longer seem to apply to those that sit on the gold, do they?

If ‘Affluenza’ is a thing then one can surmise that the parents – through negligent parenting – are criminally responsible for the behavior of their offspring.

Throw the Couch parents in jail and freeze all their assets, then. I can think of no greater punishment for pretty, little, rich Ethan Couch.

[friesorsalad]

If Things Were Real They Would Be, The Clever Guise of Fantasy

I have been avoiding the most pressing issues and in the process have pushed aside my art. I have been creating noise in my life – distraction in the form of distraction – for fear of facing the silence.

But what is it to write about that which is not…

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[friesorsalad]

Planning Ahead for Success

For those of us who want to nourish our minds AND our bodies, I’ve got a great blog to help with nutrition and feeling good from the inside out! Check out Voice of a Dietician, or click the link below. Great advice and fun recipes for girls and guys on…

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Shiny, Glossy, Red Lipstick Feminist

I was privy to a conversation the other day where the woman in question was disillusioned with…

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[friesorsalad]

One Small Thing

Taken from www.awkwardtransit.com

I woke up this morning humming the words to “Under the Sea,” from…

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[friesorsalad]

Stepping Back

Just because it is Valentine’s Day, I’ve decided to highlight some of the things I’ve learned about…

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