Hello, dear readers.
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In the unforgivably long time since last I
wrote, much has happened. I moved to a new city where randos hardly ever come
talk to me in bars. I took up Internet dating that was once, twice, three times
a let down (possible murderer, awkward friend family resemblance, Olympic
rower). A couple of actual set ups, and several “Oh my God, I should totally
introduce you to…” that never really panned out—somewhere, out there, a cop, a
firefighter, and a soldier are allegedly desperate to meet me.
Several tiny humans successfully incubated
within and then exited my girlfriends' wombs. Many, many guys decided that they
liked it and ergo they put a ring on it (cut me some slack; it’s been two
years—my pop culture references are a bit rusty). My ovaries audibly squee
whenever I see a baby while my brain is thankful that my morning alarm clock
comes with a snooze button it can’t spit out.
I don’t even want to think about the hours of my
life I have sacrificed to the Netflix gods on the altar of my couch.
Sidebar: I watched enough Doctor Who in
a two-week period that I developed a slight British accent, and this past
Valentine’s Day, I had a date with Frank Underwood that lasted for two days and
thirteen episodes.
One of the things I’ve missed over the past two
years—besides the Bayou City’s cheap and ubiquitous Tex-Mex and all 85,000
square feet of my local HEB—is writing. Last week, I was working on an article
for my school’s newspaper, and I realized two things: one, my sense of humor is
almost totally lost on 95% of my students, and two, I am at my best when
writing about the absolutely absurd. And then I got nostalgic.
So here it is, eight hundred and twenty days
since my last post—this, my attempt to (finally) bring back the blog. I can
only hope that it will be worth the wait.
XOXO,
E
