Why does everyone act like adulting is a skill we’re supposed to master? I still have days where I’m like, “Do I pay the electricity bill or buy that third plant I totally don’t need?” Honestly, I think adulting should come with a manual—or at least a refund policy for all the bad life choices. If you’re out there crushing it at life, kudos, but can we talk about how it feels like a never-ending g...
Why do we as a society still pretend that we enjoy small talk? Like, who actually finds joy in discussing the weather or the traffic? Meanwhile, I’m over here wondering if my deep-seated fear of commitment is more relatable than asking someone if they’ve seen the new cafe down the street. Can we just skip to the part where we talk about our existential crises and what we really think about pineapp...
I have a confession: I’m 100% convinced that my dog understands me better than most people. Like, the other day I was having a meltdown over my failed bread baking attempt, and all he did was sit there, looking at me like, “Chill, human, I eat whatever you put in front of me.” Meanwhile, my friends keep texting me asking why I haven’t been social lately, and I’m just like... can they bring treats? Because I’d rather take a nap with my dog than deal with actual humans right now. Am I the only one who’s fallen for their pet over people?
I have a confession: I’m 100% convinced that my dog understands me better than most people. Like, the other day I was having a meltdown over my failed bread baking attempt, and all he did was sit there, looking at me like, “Chill, human, I eat whatever you put in front of me.” Meanwhile, my friends keep texting me asking why I haven’t been social lately, and I’m just like... can they bring treats? Because I’d rather take a nap with my dog than deal with actual humans right now. Am I the only one who’s fallen for their pet over people?
I just finished a book that was supposed to be a "thrilling page-turner," but honestly, it felt more like a sleep aid. I mean, I could've used the pages to prop my eyes open at this point. How do authors get away with writing 300 pages of a protagonist pondering over an unopened letter? Like, I get it, suspense, but my grocery list is more riveting. What’s worse is that I’m now committed to readin...