I’m a quarter of a century old today. Finally an age that sounds right. 25 still seems too young, but a quarter of a century—I can wear that comfortably.
I love that I am married to a man that I can talk to about anything, and that I enjoy talking to about everything.
I love that I am married.
It is wonderful to me that different people find happiness and fulfillment in different lifestyles. I often find it disappointing that some people miss out on seeing the beauty in this by looking down on or being critical of others’ choices. We all have our niche, our comfort, our joy, and it’s more interesting that those things are not the same for everyone.
I need a bigger kitchen.
Living in New York constantly reminds me that every person is beautiful, often in very uncommon or unexpected ways.
Walking along mucky, slushy city streets makes me feel like a cat negotiating furniture, trying to make it from one piece to the next without touching the ground (wherein “touching the ground” is a metaphor for stepping ankle-deep into a cold, black puddle of wintertime grossness).
I am excited about things to come.
Watching my DVR recording of The Bachelor every Tuesday morning over breakfast makes me unreasonably happy, and I don’t care who knows it.
I love food.