I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me...

Hello, dear readers. 

Did you miss me?

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