Drinking with Idiots

You guys should know...

The title of this post is actually a little misleading.

Because when I sat down for the Skype interview with The IdiotBox Experts, it was immediately apparent that despite loads of crappy beer and a bottle of sweet red, (I shamelessly got them drunk), these guys clearly knew TV (and a lot of other things), really well.

Oh, and really quick - I'm gonna go ahead and put out there that, despite not being the most journalistically sound process, drunk interviewing is the best thing ever. Except when you go back to look at the notes you hazily scribbled on the back of your monthly auto insurance statement and find them to be absolutely incoherent.

Anyways.

You may have noticed that I don't make it a point to endorse many things on my blog. Not unless they're cool, or funny, or I feel like they add something substantial and profound to the lives of you, my dear readers, and our vast, great, wide world.

The IdiotBox Experts podcast is one of those things. (I feel like it's my journalistic duty to also mention that I'm lucky enough to call one of these guys a really great friend. Assuming we are still friends considering the time it's taken me to publish this blog).

The IdiotBox Experts podcast was an idea 6 years in the making, formed in its infancy by 2 friends that really liked hanging out and talking about stuff, who met one day on a bench.

The supreme normalcy of that chance encounter is the cornerstone upon which these podcasts sit. Regular dudes, talking about regular shit, who are just a liiiitle bit smarter than you. At least when it comes to TV.

Each week, the Experts, devilishly handsome Paul Ancona and heartbreakingly debonaire Billy Ferris converge on the interwebs to discuss the best and worst of television and beyond.

They spout easily-digestible, conversational knowledge about what's going on on television, in movies, in popular culture, wrapped up in endearing segments with "favorite dinner party guests"-type questions that leave you feeling like you wanna call them over and drink beers because you've been friends with them forever.

Don't be confused, though. They know how to hold their water. They know what they're talking about and they're passionate about the subject matter, which is what makes listeners invest their time, instead of asking "So what?" 4 minutes in and then going back to their lattes or whatever. They actually give a shit, and they make you care, too. They're engaging, encouraging listeners to take polls and answer fun questions on their Facebook and Twitter pages. And you just immediately get the sense that above and before everything else, they're having a really good time talking about this stuff.

They'd do it if they had one listener, and they'll do it when they inevitably garner thousands and millions and billions. And that's what makes it good.

The best parts of these podcasts though, are the unscripted chats between Paul and Billy. They're hilarious and genuine and awesome to listen to. And by the time the podcast is over, you find yourself bummed that they had to leave, because you feel like they've actually invaded your car or bathroom and cubicle or wherever the hell you find yourself listening, and you don't want 'em to go.

Like I said, I don't endorse tons of things on this blog. But I love the idea of friends getting together, bullshitting, and seeing an idea all the way to fruition. It's cool, and something most people are too lazy and uninterested to do.

Go listen. The podcasts will get you through rush hour traffic, quarterly meetings, the carpool line. And you may actually learn something. The next time spaghetti westerns get brought up during dinner party chats, I'll actually know what the hell they're talking about. And I'll have Paul and Billy to thank.

Things You Should Be Telling Your Kids

Dear Beth, age 6,

Come out from inside the closet. I know dad's yelling again, and you'll hear a lot more before things get silent, but there's some stuff I want to tell you.

First of all, get to know him. Try to look past how mad he makes you and how loud he is. He is broken. He is sad. It's no excuse for his crappy behavior, but you'll be stronger for it. Sit down and ask him a question. Find out his favorite memory, his favorite song, his favorite moment with you. It will be all you have left of him later.

Also, keep writing. You were made to do it. You were put on this earth to tell stories. Yours and other people's. Your voice, your words will make broken people feel whole. They'll make you whole. They'll steel you against disappointment and fear. It is who you are. Don't listen to anyone else. You are talented and smart and you have a destiny to begin fulfilling. So stand up.

I'm still in the process of creating our dream life, but I will create it. You will wake up one morning in your late 20s (or 30s, maybe) and feel lush sheets against your skin. Light will pour through open windows; the curtains will sway against the breeze in protest. This will be your home. Because it's the home I'm making for you now. It will have taken us awhile to get here -- we got a little lost. But we are resilience personified. We have fortress hearts and we figured it out.

You will walk your bare feet across creaky wooden floors in your loft apartment, nestled downtown in the middle of some average-sized city that you've settled down in. Your friends will be here. The family you've made will be here. There will be love in every room and you will feel it with each step. You'll brew coffee and roll up the sleeves of your husband's oversized button-down. He will love you. It will be good love. Trust it.

He'll go to work and you'll be sipping that brewed coffee out of your favorite mug, turning on your computer and reading the paper (there will still be a morning paper). Your desk and the wall in front of it will be plastered with your byline. Clips from Elle, small, independent presses, Time. Copies of your essays. Galleys of your book. There will be pictures of you at events, pictures with that kind, honest man who loves you. Pictures laughing with dear friends. It will be a life you're proud of. You will make it with your hands.

The road is long. Know this. And it hurts like fire. But it will also make you new. It will callous you in a way that will allow you to carry on despite the pits and bruises. Get off the floor, Beth. Get out of the closet. You won't serve the world by living small and afraid.

This is not your forever life. Your forever life is waiting for you out here. You will write. You will be full and happy. You will end up exactly where you're supposed to. People will remember your name. You'll drink at bars (easy on the whiskey) and talk in front of distinguished crowds who know your work. You will travel. You will meet amazing people. You will be a writer. You will be a satisfied, giving wife. You will be a phenomenal mother. You will be proud of the woman you turn out to be. She will be tender and strong. She will be lionhearted.


It's all here waiting for you.
Stand up.

Love,
Beth, age 26

A Lesson for Girls: How to Get a Guy to Fall in Love with You

The first time a guy told me he loved me and meant it, I was probably 16. It was sixteen-year-old love, full of promise and alcohol that our older friends' brothers' bought us. It was shaped like a backseat and it smelled like summer.

Over the course of my adult life, I've heard it a lot from different men. And if it sounds like I'm gloating, please understand. I'm not.

All this is bullshit.

Not because it's not true. I have heard it. And for the most part, the men who said it to me were good men. Kind and loving and honest. And for the most part, the relationships I was in when I heard them were real and fulfilling and scary and chock full hope that this was it. 

But those relationships ultimately ended.

Why? Well, darling girls. I have to blame myself. Turns out, I'm a liar. Not the kind that does intentionally hurtful things. But the kind that shape-shifted with the dexterity of a superhero until those men were convinced that I was the perfect girl for them.

And you can't blame them, because the girl I CREATED was perfect. I wanted so badly to be that perfect girl that I convinced myself that I really was her. The girl that didn't mind waiting, who laughed at jokes around his friends even though they were ignorant and dumb, who professed to kinda liking UFC, but actually absolutely hated it.

The truth is - the girl I am under all that, beneath the agreeability, and the patience I demonstrate when I'm left waiting for 45 minutes because he forgot we had plans - she most definitely is not perfect for these decent men. But she got snuffed out. And that is why shit never worked out.

That other girl, that REAL girl, is actually angry, and difficult, and a giant pain in the ass. She is impatient and takes up all the space on the bathroom sink. She gets homicidal about traffic congestion. She doesn't like waiting for a reply to text messages. She doesn't like waiting for anything, actually. She loves strawberry shortcake and head rubs. And she isn't interested in anything anyone has to say before like, 9am.

I spent a long time thinking THAT girl, the real one, was unloveable because she required too much work. So she got smothered by agreeability, because agreeability made her likeable and malleable. And also intensely resentful and restless and unsatisfied.

My point here is this - if you want to get on the fast track to making a guy fall in love with you - bisect who you are. Cut it in half. Make it less. Make it sweet. Make it palatable. Listen out for cues like, "I love athletic girls," and then promptly go out and buy some Norts. I promise you, professions of undying love will pour in.

But be warned - it will be empty-calorie love. It will never satiate you. You will go to sleep next to men who leave you hungry. And they will be left wanting too. Because you will be angel food cake - light, hollowed out like a pore, spongy and sweet and ultimately empty.

Not interested in emotionally starving, you say? Try this instead:

Don't laugh at things that aren't funny. Don't agree to go to a Brantley Gilbert concert if you think it'll suck (which it will). Laugh loudly. Don't shave above the knee if you don't want to. Say no to things you don't like without feeling like you have to explain yourself. Opt for binge watching Twin Peaks on Saturday night instead of heading out for another rollicking evening of Natty Light beer pong. Wear flowers in your hair. Get dirt on your feet. Bowl with abandon. Let go of the notion of cool. Like weird things.

Make them question you.

Make them rise to the occasion that IS you.

Because when you're a REAL girl -- a beautiful, messy, complicated one -- and a man -- a good, strong, sturdy, honest, loyal, kind, inexhaustible one -- comes along and says I love you, it will be the best sounding I love you. It will distinguish itself from everything else you've ever heard. It will sound like the next 60 years of your life. It will be full-fat love. It will be nutrient-dense with honesty. It will wait out the storm and the hour it takes for you to get ready without bitching.

It will be exactly what you want because you will KNOW what you want. And you'll know what you want because you stopped compromising who you were for hollow 'almosts.' I promise, you will know the difference.

Quality over quantity, ladies. Always.

IT Girl

I'm going to go ahead and preface this with the fact that before reading IT, I honestly couldn't have cared less about Alexa Chung. All I knew about her was that she somehow always ended up in Elle magazine with perfectly adorable, dishelved hair and enviable flats, and a dorkiness  so perfectly executed that it landed her in the front row at Calvin Kline. 

Also Alex Turner. I knew about the Alex Turner thing.

But I mean, whatever. 

I honestly had no idea what she was even famous for. 

And then, she turns around and writes this book, IT, and it's all suddenly very clear to me. 

The woman has made a very lucrative career quantifying, decoding, living and perpetuating this amorphous idea of cool. She has distilled 'I don't give a fuck' into something palatable. Likable. Enviable even. And then she bound it and put her name on it. 

My inital thought after discovering IT on the shelf, next to a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt, was exasperation. Because I'm a snob. I had this momentary lapse where I began losing my faith in my chosen profession, convinced that it'd been further saturated by malnourished, watered-down writing. It's the same feeling I get when I see that Lauren Conrad's written another book about her favorite pink lipstick shade and the correct way to construct a topknot. 

The thing is though, something compelled me to buy it. I BOUGHT this book, you guys. I spent my money on it. Intern money. Money usually reserved for such necessities as food, toilet paper and box wine (kidding, but just about the fact that it's in a box). I don't know why. Maybe the cover. It FELT like a book. Hard-backed with no sleeve, rough to the touch and monogrammed with a title. The pages were thick. It was cute and pink. Plus I had this vague notion that she did actally sit down and write the words. 

But the point is, I bought it. 

And then I went home and binged on it for 2 days.

And I liked it. I liked it a lot. I liked it enough to try tie-dyed harem pants and a granny sweater despite my 5'4 inch, slightly bottom heavy frame. 

I guess it's because as I was reading it, I just felt her "I dont give a fuck, I wake up like this, this peplum top used to belong to a 60 year old refugee but I look dope in it and I'm gonna wear it out with my very cool friends and Instagram myself" attitude seep into my fingers as I turned the pages.  

The book isn't exactly a how-to guide. It's  more of a vague road map. She provides a context for her taste and lets you put the pieces together as you see fit. She's catalogued her inspiration for everything from her 'I just had amazing sex' hair to what she chooses to wear to the gym, and suddenly everything you know and don't know about her starts to make sense.

There's an ode to the Spice Girls and just a few pages later you stumble upon a truly beautiful, aching section about heartbreak that I could have seriously used like 3 months ago. Granted, I don't really understand it's place in the book, aside from the fact that harrowing depression has informed some of my best fashion decisions as well. I'm right there with you, Alexa.  

The only problem, really, if you could call it that, is that reading the book is like hanging out with her. It was done so well and so effectively that by the end you've become best friends with someone you can't ever know. She's more familiar to you, and ironically a little bit less cool because you've gotten to see behind the magic curtain. 

If that's the only problem though, I'd call IT a sweeping success. It's something I'll reference again, if only because the pictures she includes are engaging and inspiring, and something that I previously thought was out of my reach - true, effortless fashion sense - was suddenly and literally, in the palm of my hands. 

Remembering a Mad Girl

Sylvia Plath died on this day in 1963. And at first glance, she miiight not be the best person in the world to over-identify with. What with the whole oven incident.

But she was first person I read that accurately described the constant insatiability, the hunger and curiosity, the unquenchable need to write and write and write, the restlessness.

The first time you realize that you aren't alone in your craziness is a profound moment. And one that I'll always associate with the Mad Girl.

"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am."

“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and 

physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.” 

“Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.” 

“Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.” 

“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.” 

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.” 

“I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.” 

“I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?” 

Mode for Misanthropes

While I don't readily identify with either introverts or extroverts, I do identify with sweatpants. Or really any other fashion item comfortable enough to accommodate a Friday night (or any other night, really) spent on my couch with a book and sea salt caramel gelato.

And apparently I'm not the only one.

The art and apparel company Stay Home Club boasts a full range of sweats and t-shirts and art prints glorifying the reclusive, bratty, misanthropic introvert in all of us.

Plus, it's all pretty dope. Especially that potato chip necklace. And the Stay Home and Watch Buffy Tote? Will. Be. Mine.

America, the Commercial

Last Sunday was the Super Bruno Mars concert Bowl, and during what was arguably the most disappointing game ever, I along with lots of millions of other people saw the Coke commercial. 

And listen. I wasn't going to say anything at first. I really wasn't. I was just going to let it go. 

But then, uniformed, ignorant posts kept showing up on my Facebook news feed. Along with an absolutely ridiculous, grossly under-researched, and entirely offensive article. And the more I was confronted with the idiocy of it all, the angrier I got. 

You can read the article I'm referring to here. 

Apparently, there are several people, including Ms. Barnes here, that are a little angry and offended by this commercial. You know - the one where like, all these funny looking people with weird foreign accents started singing in a different language. 

So mad, in fact, that they go on an entirely biased, unreliable news outlet and churn out a piece on 'redefining America.' 

Guys. 

Ugh. 

Now I'm not going to point out every single thing that's just - wrong - with this piece, like the fact that apparently male role model is a negative term that's all but bastardized the word father, because it's neither here nor there. Instead, I'll just say this.

First of all, every single day, this country gets redefined. If it didn't, I still wouldn't have the right to vote and my mom's black best friend would have to use a separate bathroom. History is reactionary and demands that culture be accepting of inevitable change. As the world shifts, the way things look and operate shift as well. America as we know it now is an amorphous, albeit accommodating place, that does, in fact LOOK FRIGGIN DIFFERENT than it did when the Puritans wandered over here from Europe. And BY THE WAY - in case you forgot Sarah Barnes, the damn place wasn't empty when they got here. Lots of people with dark skin who spoke tribal languages THAT WERE NOT ENGLISH and worshipped a multitude of gods and animals had already set up shop and were doing just fine until white dudes showed up with polio-infested blankets and started handing them out to cold children. (THAT HAPPENED. READ A BOOK).  

Secondly - if we're going with the definition of 'Murica, let us not forget that our founding fathers, the ones so readily referenced when talking about patriotism, did in fact define America in specific terms. Those terms were things like, oh, tolerance. Freedom to worship without fear of persecution. These were men who came out of an era of intellectual awakening called The Enlightenment whose principles were based upon rationality and reason. NOT blind ignorance and bigotry. 

I'm sorry that you're a little miffed at the notion that not every single person who lives in this country looks, sounds, dresses, prays, fights, loves, dances, cooks, eats, and works exactly like you for the same reason that you do. I'm even more sorry that you're the type of person who's offended by that. 

The Red, White and Blue doesn't mean what you think it means anymore. And if we're being honest, it never did. Do you even remember Ellis Island? Or the fact that your own families immigrated here? We are all transplants. And that doesn't in any way make us less patriotic. Choosing to alienate entire groups of people based on race or ethnicity was a common theme in like, WWII, I think. And we were pretty against it then, from what I remember when I was doin' all that learnin' in them public schools. 

Not only are you coming across as ignorant, you're also coming across as an asshole, so disconnected from the vast scope of human experience that you refuse to acknowledge the fact that this country has never, and will never be homogenous. 

If I ever feel proud to be an American, it's in those times when I feel like we've stood together, expressed global tolerance, attempted to be inclusionary, and shown that we're capable of opening our minds to ideas that were scary or new.  

It's not that America doesn't want you, Ms. Barnes. We aren't asking you to agree with or join up with or accept some crazy gay-loving, women-have-rights-too, everyone deserves to be treated with dignity and respect ideology. We're simply asking for 2 seconds of brief consideration. Consideration of the notion that there isn't one idea of America and that that's what makes it beautiful. 

And while we're at it, if you really want to start defining or undefining or redefining or whatever it was you were talking about in your bitter diatribe, maybe you should open up one of those book shaped things and check out what liberty actually means. Because last time I checked, exclusionary, ignorant, hateful, and close-minded were NOT synonymous with ANY of the values that this country was founded on. Unless you're Anita Baker, in which case your entire ridiculous article would start to make sense.

I understand that I'm approaching this as someone who isn't say, in the military. And my values and therefore persepctive are clearly different than someone who has decided to sacrifice their time and lives to defend the nation. But because I am accepting and open to new people and cultures and ideas that are presented to me right here at home, does not make me any less of a patriot. Multiculturalism is not a liability. And it doesn't make me any less proud to live here. 

It does, however, make me much less proud of you.

Black Magic

It's Wednesday! It's Wednesday!

That means 2 things. One, American Horror Story: Coven comes back on. Two, Stevie Nicks is going to be on the show tonight. And there are very few things on this Earth I love more than Stevie Nicks. I'm talking like, Talenti gelato and new socks. That's it.

One of the many great things about the show, aside from maybe Evan Peters' guttural moaning, is the constant parade of amazing black outfits. So in honor of tonight's witchy women, I'm bringing you lots of black clothes that I wish were hanging in my closet but aren't because I'm an intern. And also lots of Stevie pictures because Rhiannon and Fleetwood Mac and tambourines and stuff.

Also, pardon the lack of cohesion. I sleepy.

Scattered, Smothered and Covered: Why Waffle House Matters

I don't remember when my mom and dad started taking my brother and me to Waffle House on Saturday mornings. But I remember it being one of my absolute favorite things to do. The hard backed booths with their padded red vinyl cushions. The sticky, glass sugar dispensers and the sizzle of shredded potatoes thrown on grease that somehow magically transformed into a glorious, glistening, golden brown pile of hash browns that in my 20 some odd years on this earth I have yet to see properly replicated anywhere.

It was a staple of nutritional deficiency and a complete disregard for our arteries.



And it was heaven on a weekend morning.

As I've gotten older, Waffle House has become less of place to have a meal and more of a place to have a life. It's been the backdrop of 3am arguments and life-changing conversations with best friends. Its parking lot has seen the rise and fall of one of the most substantial relationships of my life, and when I came back from Jacksonville, terrified to go out into the world and do anything, I was still able to meet a dear friend at midnight at Waffle House and guzzle cheap coffee from the same iconic mug my mom and dad drank from when I was kid. Innumerable games of checkers have been played on grease-laden table tops and some of the most willing, listening ears belonged to the waitresses that worked the graveyard shift.

The waitresses, old and young, faces always deeply lined with a life of potentially poor decision-making, and voices invariably gruff from too many smoke breaks, are always willing to talk. Despite the fact that it's Christmas and they have to work. Despite the fact that your brain is shellacked with booze and you're just trying to consume enough fat and salt to stave off an inevitable hangover, they're always willing to chat. And Waffle House waitresses always, ALWAYS have a past. Whether you feel like listening or not, as soon as you saddle up to the booth, you're committed to hearing about pieces of it.

It's a place you can go and always feel like you have company, whether someone's sitting across from you or not. A little um, drunk? Come on in. Don't feel like getting dressed, or cooking for yourself, or showering? Fear not - at Waffle House, you're still likely to be the most attractive person there.

It's a church confessional for those of us who don't have dress shoes - just pajama pants and too many shots of cheap whiskey, and desire to talk to someone who doesn't know you at all. It's the cheat day for your diet.

And it's the absolute best cup of coffee you can get for $1.

Quintessential Depressing Break-Up Song List

Scour the internet and you will find no end to the break-up mixes. Songs full of angry lyrics about keying cars and being strooon-ger (Britney? Anyone? Okay). For those who are able to transition immediately into that phase of the break-up, kudos. You bypassed the crappy part completely. Count your lucky stars that you made a beeline straight into rage.

Unfortunately, for the rest of us, all that anger requires lots of effort, and when you've been blown apart by a break-up and every step you take throughout the day physically aches, sometimes you just don't have it in you to get there. All you have the energy to do is cry because everything else seems daunting and weird.

These songs my friends, all clickable and ready for your listening pleasure,  are for those moments.

These aren't meant to empower you to get up out of your sweatpants and face the world. These songs are your official permission to wallow.

Do What You Have to Do - Sarah McLachlan - So Sarah will reappear again on this list because her voice is stunning and beautiful, and it's able to capture the delicacy and desperateness of grief. And that's what break-ups are for some people - episodic, annihilating moments of grief.
Knee-buckling lyric: And I have the sense to recognize, that I don't know how to let you go.

Simple Together - Alanis Morissette - If you're willing to endure the gut-wracking sobs that this song will likely induce, it's one of the most accurate break-up songs ever written. It's about the precious, crystalline hopes you go into a relationship with, and how awkward, displaced, and empty-handed you feel when it's over. It's the way she sings the words. They're long and wailing. And let's be honest, if anyone knows about pain, it's Alanis Morisette. Prepare the tissues, ladies.
Knee-buckling lyric: I can't go to you for consolation, cuz we're off limits during this transition. This grief overwhelms me. It burns in my stomach. And I can't stop bumping into things.

Shadow of Love - She & Him - Alright, now that that's over, pull yourself up off the floor. It's gonna be fine. She & Him tend to make even the most depressing situations light and pastel. But this song, still in typical mid-century fashion, actually feels like a break-up song. It's haunting, but still soothing somehow, thanks to that thing Zooey does where her voice is perfect. It's also matter-of-fact. It's all the hard edges of an ending.
Knee-buckling lyric: We should have known, love's as brittle as a broken bone. 

Throw Me a Rope - KT Tunstall - This is just a beautiful song. The girl singing it isn't broken; she's lost and waiting for the time to pass. Which it never seems to do after a break-up. Because it's an asshole.
Knee-bucking lyric: So throw me a rope, to hold me in place. Show me a clock, for counting my days down. Cuz everything's easier when you're beside me. So come back and find me, cuz I feel alone. 
(Close second: And whenever you go, it's like holding my breath underwater.)

Wreck of the Day - Anna Nalick - If you are dealing with the end of the relationship, I'm just going to go ahead and recommend this entire album. It's really good. But this song is about a girl that is exhausted. And discouraged. And has thrown her hands up in the air, because seriously, what the hell else are you supposed to do? It's not crippling, but it's honest.
Knee-buckling lyric: Desperately close to a coffin of hope, I'd cheat destiny just to be near you. 

Foolish Games - Jewel - If you're sensing a heavy 90's theme here, it's because there kinda is one. But only because that seemed to be a decade where a lot of grrrls were getting broken up with and writing songs about it. I guess they're still doing that now, they're just all really shitty. This one is a classic. It's so good, so sad, so 90's. So everything you need to walk you through your misery. Also, the video is ridiculous and amazing.
Knee-buckling lyric: Well, excuse me. Guess I've mistaken you for somebody else. Somebody who gave a damn. Somebody more like myself.

Full of Grace - Sarah McLachlan - Welcome back, Sarah. We've missed you. This song is so, so sad, but so incredible. Another 90's staple, I first heard this song on Buffy (see: Joss before The Avengers, best writing on TV ever). This is rock-bottom, ladies. She wrote this from a dark well of despair and somehow managed to turn it into beautiful music. I'd only listen to it once though, because you do have to stop crying sometime.
Knee-buckling lyric: I feel just like I'm sinking, and I claw for solid ground. I'm pulled down by the undertow, never thought I could feel so low.

Shine - Anna Nalick - So if you've made it through the list and you're aren't too teary-eyed and wine (or whiskey, whatever) drunk, get up and listen to this. It's Anna Nalick again, because I love her. And also because she's asking you to get over it, in a way that's poetic and empowering. Honestly, I know it hurts. Everywhere. All the time. Blind-siding you in the car and the shower and everywhere else. But you're kinda not serving the world by staying huddled up in your house mourning over a situation/a person/a life you just weren't meant for. So cry and cry and scream and don't get dressed and hate him and ache and grieve. But then stop. And listen to this.
And because now you're up off the floor: And I think you need to stop following misery's lead. Shine away, shine away, shine away. And isn't it time you got over how fragile you are? We're all wait, waiting for your supernova.

So. Before I go. Let's review.

Don't think it's okay to spend forever in this deep hole. Do allow yourself to be sad. Don't fight it. Let it be. Ride the grief. And one day, out of nowhere, you'll wake up and feel like yourself again.

That's what I hear, anyway.