A Thief is Among Us

Today I learned that someone stole packages from my front door. New hiking boots for me and a much coveted dress for my roommate. ¬†The only other time that I have every been wronged in the form of petty theft¬†was when I was in the 5th grade and took an after school pottery class. There was another girl name Lauren in the class so I was riddled with as much anxiety a 10-year-old could be riddled with in regards to our pieces getting mixed up. I’d write in huge letters “LAUREN C. 5th GRADE” and yet Lauren from the 6th grade would always take my coil bowls by accident. Thankfully, my kind, loving, art teacher would right the wrong and I’d go home with the brown little dung¬†bowl I made my mother.

HOWEVER, in the case of the hiking boot/dress dilemma, the wrongs have not been righted, YET.

Despite the kooky¬†things I post online, I’m very mild mannered in person. I do get riled up and it all comes pouring out with lots of hand gestures and weird noises, but normally I’m shy and quiet due to being an habitual¬†over-observer. I’m sure when I’m doing this the other people in the room imagine¬†tumble weeds blowing around in the desert landscape of my mind but c’est faux, you bimbo. ¬†I also do not get angered easily. I’ve somehow gotten to the point in my life (thankfully) that I understand¬†the situations¬†that would make me angry in the past simply do not matter.¬†The last time I was truly angry was almost four years ago, if that gives you any indication of my calmness. I may act fired up, concerned, or perturbed, but it’s never been angry.With that being said,¬†¬†hell hath no fury like a nice-former-pottery-making-calm-girl scorned.


On Friday before noon, our packages were delivered to our building. Our LOVELY neighbor tends to bring our packages in so they aren’t sitting out in the open. She did so around 5pm. That means they were locked inside our building. I didn’t get home until midnight. Hm, no packages. WEIRD. I thought maybe she took them to her house figuring we left for a weekend (again, she’s a DOLL). The next morning came but we were out and about and again, came home to no packages. ALRIGHT FINE.

Sunday morning, we get up and we hear our lovely doll neighbor outside. I rip our door off its hinges to inquire about the packages. Sure enough, she confirms she left them there. I don’t remember anything in between us making and posting signs on every single door in the building but I do recall at one point chasing one of my neighbors into their apartment interrogating them and also stopping to say hello to their nice kitties. Mind you, I’ve never met this person or these nice kitties. All boundaries were lost. It’s like when you get broken up with via text but you’re in the middle of class and you go into zombie tunnel vision and stand up, palm the face of your teacher when he asks what you are doing, and walk out without any of your things and withdraw from school and never return again.


After meeting the kitties, nice neighbor doll lady came down and offered to help us, MEANING going through the trash to look for evidence. We tipped all the recycle bins looking for boxes while she literally fucking CLIMBED INTO THE DUMPSTER WITH A BROOM AND GARDENING GLOVES FOR PROTECTION. She’s what people a year ago would’ve referred to¬†as “a bad bitch.”

No luck though.

We’ve had leads from other neighbors saying they saw the boxes at our door around 7pm. The time frame narrows.¬†

I’ve been checking eBay and craigslist for possible leads in the meantime.

I don’t even care about the boots (alright maybe a smoocheroo worth because they were ADORABLE AND PRACTICAL) but I think I’m more sad that this is something that a human being did. I know the atrocities of the world but I still find it unfathomable that someone walking by saw a package and thought¬†“hm, mine now!” I felt guilty for taking a dime off the ground of an office that wasn’t mine. I found a few dollar bills dropped underneath a table at a bar and stuck it in the tip cup because IT WASN’T MINE. This is coming from a girl who brought her Lion King pop-up book into kindergarten show and tell and found all the animals ripped out when she got it back from the Share Bin after recess. ¬†It’s as if I’ve never learned what the X-Files has been preaching this whole time.


But, I don’t believe that. If this is a spectrum then I’m on the “I’m sure they will materialize in front of our door soon” end. Sigh.

In all our sleuthing though, we  found out we have a really huge backyard to hang out in. Who knew?


In joyous news, I realized I’ve lost 30lbs in the past year and a half. I guess when you hit the back half of your twenties your metabolism¬†moves to a retirement community. It also didn’t help that my quality of life plummeted during the passing of one of my immediate family members. For anyone dealing with hardships and not feeling good, IT’S OKAY! Sometimes you have to eat a whole box of poptarts within 24 hours. ¬†I wouldn’t recommend it long term but then again goddammit those¬†babies are nice when you’re laying on the couch in the dark marathoning whatever show you’re addicted to.

Anyways, my secret to success? MOVING. As in, not sitting and having my muscles atrophy. Also, eating food that isn’t poptarts. Brussel sprouts are cool. I also use products on my body that don’t have chemicals in them because it makes me feel less shitty. I literally tasted¬†body scrub I bought because the ingredients were sugar, orange oil, and lemon oil. It was delicious and I don’t regret it. The¬†deodorant I have is cocoa butter, coconut oil, and peppermint so it¬†smells like a peppermint patty. I don’t eat that though. I do have standards and limitations, surprisingly.

                          OR DO I?



Buy the Horse While You Can

As we pulled into the rock parking lot, I immediately noticed her hanging on the 50% off rack in front of the store.

The moment the car was in park, I kicked my door open and slammed it behind me as I bounded out. She gently swung back and forth in the breeze. Her brown hair shining in the sun.

The most beautiful plush horse backpack I ever saw.

Late for an appointment, I walked around the inside of the store a few times then waved goodbye to the backpack as I left. I’ll come back for you tomorrow.¬†

Normally, I don’t get hung up on material items, save for a few precious mementos. This was different. I couldn’t stop thinking about her for the rest of the night. She’ll be there when we go back. Who would buy a horse backpack? They had like a hundred turtle backpacks. The plush animal backpack market must really be taking a hit. Those turtles do look stupid though.

The next morning came and I shoved my mother out the door. As we pulled up the the shop, my mother quietly said,”Uh oh.” The racks that were on display the day before were not outside. When we got into the store, I sauntered around as to not seem too eager to demand to know where they kept their horse backpacks. My mother noticed I was hesitating, so she asked for me, like she has probably done ¬†several hundred million times before in my shy little life.

The shop worker went to a back room and quickly came back. “Only turtles, sorry.”

My mom shot me a look, as I was eavesdropping¬†behind a nearby jewelry stand. “Uh oh, Lauren. Don’t cry.”

I was upset but there are two key sentences that are guaranteed to get someone to cry when uttered. Those are “Are you okay?” and “Don’t cry.”

My throat tightened and I fiddled with some shitty non-horse related earrings. “I’m not. Look at these, aren’t they great?” distracting her from noticing that I was dying inside.

Still standing behind the jewelry rack, a grandmother and a little boy went up the cashier. “Do you have any more porch swings?” The deliverer of doom served some more bad news, “I’m sorry, we sold out yesterday.”

I was impressed that the little boy, who was maybe 7 years old, didn’t burst into tears like I was about to. His grandmother said, “Aw shucks, buddy. We’ll get one next time.” They left.

Alright, if he can handle not getting his seahorse shaped porch swing¬†without making a scene, I can handle not getting a horse backpack that is uncomfortably¬†out of my age range. You’re nearing 30, what are you going to do with a horse backpack anyway? Love it unconditionally more than any child who probably¬†received it ever could? Yeah. You’re not even a “horse girl.” Haha horsegirl. What if I had hooves but was still a human? I¬†couldn’t even zip the backpack. Maybe if I held it with my knees then used both hooves to pinch the zipper. What? Whatever, you shouldn’t have named her.

i’m growing to learn it’s harder when you¬†name things that aren’t yours because you’ll get attached to it. I named the backpack Baby Hillary, after a fake character me and my friend created during a 9 hour road trip back from Canada. Hillary is a black mare who has a ‘tude-and-a-half and a penchant for sass. She’s kind of¬†ass. When you’re music cuts out while your driving. Hillary.¬†You can’t find your cellphone charger? Hillary. You spilled something on your shirt? It was¬†Hillary.

Baby Hillary, though. She is an angel. She holds all your secrets and treasures and keeps them safe inside her heart/back/zipper. She listens to you and lets you brush her hair. What more could you want from a furry, inanimate, stuff-holder?

I tried looking Baby Hillary up online, and I found her, but it wasn’t the same. It felt cheap. I would only be satisfying the need of getting what I want physically, but it wouldn’t fill the void of having the REAL Baby Hillary. The one I saw and loved as she was.

I know we try and live with no regrets. It’s hard sometimes. If you see a plush horse backpack, tell him or her you love them. Bring them home and show them your things. There’s no embarrassment in expressing your¬†feelings. That’s what we’re here for.

May you always have the wisdom and clear sight to see your Baby Hillary’s for the special one-of-kind stars in the sky that they are. Buy the horse while you can.

Songs I Listen to Compulsively: Meditation & Chant Edition

I bet you thought I was joking with that title!


Here a some songs I listen a few times a day because I like to get my zen on.

Meditation Gif

Links are in the titles!

The Jewel in the Lotus РLama Surya Das & Steve Halpern                                                                                           

Tibetan chants plus urban groove, sign me up! I go into a trance every time this comes on. I’m actually in a trance right now thinking about it. Am I even writing this or is it subliminal messages controlling me like in the Josie and the Pussycats movie?

Lullaby for Yoga – Lullabies for Deep Meditation

Not to be listened to if you are or planning on operating heavy machinery. You may think you are tough enough to withstand a lullaby, but I assure you, you are not.

Sensory Skin – Lis Addison

This one’s kind of tropical and hot! Or as my mother referred to it as “scary.” Very simple harmonies but I’m pretty sure it’s sung by a bunch of sirens because I stick around for the whole seven minutes and forty seconds.

Abwoon (Our Father) – Lisa Gerrard & Patrick Cassidy

Could easily pass as a song from one of The Lord of the Rings soundtracks.

An Unusual Summer – John Mills

I think I like this song mostly for it’s title. It is always an unusual summer, isn’t it? Listen to some rain sounds why don’t you and think about how unusual it is.

OKAY! There it is. Weird, I know.


The Tale of Two Coffees

Hey kids!

Welcome to Stupid Sunday, where I detail something stupid I did today. ENJOY!


I go to Starbucks every single day. If you think that’s an exaggeration, please feel free look¬†at my credit card statement and/or my Starbucks card on my phone in horror.

Every single day I order a grande vanilla iced coffee.

Every single day.

I don’t even shower every day. That’s how up there this is with “breathing” on my list of things to do.

The bottom of the cup actually filters into a tube that goes directly into my blood stream.

On my drive over to Starbucks, I was getting nervous because I was going to a location I normally don’t go to and I know it can be disgustingly busy there. To take the edge off, I started repeating the order “tall vanilla iced coffee” in my head. Mind you, the last time I ordered a “tall” anything at Starbucks, I was in 10th grade and at the time the talls were the size of¬†what the current¬†grandes are. Don’t worry, I feel like a giant asshole for even knowing this and talking about it publicly.

At one point during my mantra, I even caught myself. I don’t even order talls. It’s a grande. Grande. Grande. I want a venti. It’s Sunday, I’ll get a venti.¬†¬†I want so much coffee I can feel the kidney stones getting ready to pass. Tall. Tall vanilla iced coffee. No it’s not a tall it’s a venti.

When I finally arrived to said Starbucks location, the line was wrapped around a beef jerky and Oprah tea display and wound out the door. All the people standing and waiting made me anxious, so I just let my eyes dart around and continued with my inner monologue turning into a vicious dialogue over coffee size.

Sure enough when ¬†it was my time to order, “CAN I HAVE A TALL VANILLA ICED COFFEE PLEASE!”


The nice barista prepped my baby sized cup and asked if that would be all.


No, I’m a dumb idiot. Why can’t you see this pain on my face?

When I made it over to the cashier, I knew I couldn’t leave there with just a teaspoon of coffee. My heart was set on jumbo and by god, jumbo is what I would get.

The nice cashier started, “One tall vanilla iced coffee? That will be–”


This is the kind of response¬†kids would call “no chill.”¬†A normal person would have asked for the size to be changed. Not me, I prefer¬†to double fist¬†two very small coffees¬†because that is the adult thing to do.

“Uh, sure. You want two tall vanilla iced coffees?” nice cashier asked.

“YES, ONE IS FOR A FRIEND” said the¬†psychotic person.

Lying always helps the situation, despite no one caring if you are ordering two coffees for yourself or not.

I paid, I waited, I brought my two Barbie accessory sized coffees over to the sugar/dairy counter and proceeded to make two identical coffees because me and my friend just so happen to like our coffees the exact same way, from the half & half and whole milk combo down to the dash of cinnamon on top.

This is me. This is the choice I made. I am a real person existing in the world doing these things.


Have you ever gone out of your way to make yourself less embarrassed about a situation that literally does not matter to the rest¬†world? Any really weird things you did to cover your tracks to avoid anyone knowing you’re an idiot?


K, I love you. Happy Sunday. Remember, Jesus is King and so is Simba.

Me and My Guitar and Our Staircase of Brussel Sprouts

Hey kids!

This week in great and exciting news, I bought a guitar!

It’s nothing special but I have been polishing and kissing it every day. I’m surprised it didn’t arrive smashed into toothpicks. Although I shouldn’t say “arrived” considering UPS declared my address was not a real address in the world and I had to track it down and wait 2 hours in their UPS pick-up dungeon before finally getting it at¬†9PM. But I digress.

She’s a tart little telecaster and she loves me as much as I love her. She brushes my hair, she makes me oatmeal, and she tells me bedtime stories to soothe me to sleep. She was a little mad at me at first because I forgot to buy her a case because I’m a big dummy. “Well, as a beginner, you wouldn’t really know to buy one!” you say. But this is my third guitar so stop making excuses for me already.

Now to plug some apps that do not sponsor me but if they wanted to that would be hella cool but probably not because they’d be like “no one says hella anymore.” If you search for apps or videos, make sure you write “guitar lessons” and not “guitar lesions” because weird things come up that I have to live with now.¬†If you need a strict learning plan like I do, because if I don’t practice every day I’ll forget I even have a guitar and go move to Canada without it, then I recommend getting a real, live, non-bot human teacher at least a couple of times a week to give you guitar lesions. ¬†I mean lessons. I took lessons and¬†I was HORRENDOUS at doing the homework because I would just play Em and be like “yep, I can strum it a bunch, now what?” and sit there and not challenge myself to learn anything else and then forget I have a guitar and move to Canada. BUT if you need something where you have to trick yourself into learning, then I suggest downloading Yousician on your phone or iPad. I would download it on my iPad but I have the original iPad so if I do anything beyond turning it on, it will explode. Anyways, there’s the free version which you only get so much time on every day and then there’s the version¬†where you say “yes, I have a credit card, please charge it” and they do and then you get unlimited access. It’s a cool resource if you need pick yourself up by the guitar straps (see what I did there) and start playing within a day or so.

The past few days I’ve had some pretty terrible practice sessions on my guitar. Some days¬†my brain and fingers connect and everything is happy but then some days my brain is screaming “PLAY a Dm! Play a Dm! GOD DAMMIT, PLAY IT!” but my fingers are like “You mean Am? How about just regular D? Are you sure you don’t want regular D?” and it’s a mess. I did see a video a while back from some guy trying to sell law of attraction stuff¬†and he started talking about practicing and how we think it’s like an upward, ascending arrow on a graph. Just smooth sailing right on up! However, he pointed out that’s not really the case. Success and learning is more like a staircase. We’re going up, going up going up, and we’re peaking over the corner and BOOM plateau. We hang¬†around the plateau for a while until we start climbing again and get a little spurt of inspiration then BOOM plateau again. It made a lot of sense but I still didn’t buy his product, sorry guy. At least I have more of a profound respect for stairs. The point being, that you may play for a while and not feel like you’re getting anywhere then KABOOM something will click and you’ll go onto your next phase of learning. Or some crap like that.

OKAY! Well enough of me clutching my guitar to my breast via blog post for one night.

Do you have any tales of dusty musical instruments you have stuffed in your closet? What did you play? Why? Do you still play? If no, why not? TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS!

I’m off to bed, have a great night, don’t forget to halve¬†your brussel sprouts before blanching them! I LOVE YOU143 xox.

Hey, I’m Dumb and Here’s Why: A Moment on Suicide and My Stupidity*

*Please note this post discusses suicide and may be triggering for some. The National Suicide Hotline for those in need: 1-800-273-8255.


Today I watched the Virgin Suicides¬†for the first time. Not the most uplifting of movies, but who would’ve guessed¬†with that title?sdfsdfsdfsdfsdf

I know I’m about 15 years too late and I’m not sure if spoilers have a “statute of limitations” but to spare anyone who hasn’t seen it, I’ll make a vague statement by saying–they talk about suicides! One of them being “sticking your head in the oven.”


Now, for someone who was very sheltered in their life and was lucky enough to grow up without having to learn from such an experience, I did not know what the logistics were behind the “sticking your head in the oven” method. I’d heard it and almost found it humorous because I pictured someone’s nana having a fit over bad manners at the dinner table and using it as a threat¬†to get everyone to shut up,¬†behave and eat nicely.

Me and my roommate started getting upset over the thought of this horrific way to end a¬†life. “So do you just wait for it to heat up and you burn yourself?” and “Or do you just hit yourself with the door?” were some of the genius questions posed by these two. “How scary must it be to wait for it to preheat??”

We finally googled it out of sheer morbid curiosity.


That’s when we found out just how dumb we really are! ¬†Apparently, it was very easy to manipulate old GAS ovens and breathe in the toxic fumes. YEAH. No one was trying to have a Gremlins moment. Thankfully, this misuse of an appliance is not as easy to partake in now.

Oh yeah and then I peed my pants laughing about how serious we took ourselves in our plight to save non-existent people from not cooking their head meat A urine-soaked cycle of chumps and chump-related thoughts.


In any case,¬†I want to stress that I don’t find suicide itself¬†funny because it’s not. What I find funny is¬†how I am terribly naive and have a lot to learn about mostly everything in the world. ¬†For example, I am still not 100% sure on how to use a can opener. Suicide just happened to be the subject¬†of the day.

Have you ever done or thought anything so tremendously stupid, it was almost borderline adorable how much of a knucklehead you were? How did you find out that you were wrong and possibly irreversibly dumb? I NEED TO KNOW!

Stay safe! Breathe clean air! You are loved even if you don’t know how to use a can opener either. 143 123 xox pfffft.

My Arm Almost Came Off and I Lived to Tell the Tale

Hey childrens,

This week in Things I Have Done to Injure Myself in Dramatic and Stupid Ways, I nearly got my arm chopped off.

While I was trying to tuck my giant desk-sized coloring books behind the couch and the wall, I dropped them from too high up and the force made them slide a bit under the couch. I knelt on the couch and peered down the back, my forehead against the wall.

Ah! I’ll just stick my arm down there and pull them back up so they are standing!

Well, when I stuck my left arm down the back of the couch, I must’ve pushed my body weight against the back of the couch, pinning my arm between the wall and the wood frame. I knew something was wrong when my hand began immediately began to pulse and the blood rushed to my fingers.

Wow, this a lot of pain for a coloring book rescue mission.

I tried to pull my arm out but with every tug it felt more and more like my arm was in  a vice-grip or like when the doctor takes your blood pressure and tries to pump your arm until it explodes.

I tried to to use my right arm and pull the back of the couch quickly enough to free the other. Unfortunately, this couch has had a real sour attitude ever since we accidentally dropped it down a flight of stairs while moving in.

After about of minute of panic and wondering if my roommate would find my dead body hanging over the couch, I tried to use my body weight and shift the couch opposite of how I body slammed it against one of my extremities. Too bad the two front feet of the couch were firmly placed on our short haired carpet. Sure, I could push the couch and the back legs would slide on the tile but pulling it against the carpet was not happening. I was defeated.

Here I am sawing my arm out of from behind my couch.

So, did a super hunk hear my cries for help and kick down my door and ripped the couch from underneath me?

Obviously not, you big dummy!

But I did rip a generous amount of skin off while pulling it out. I tried to manipulate the ever-so-delicate, non-muscle parts of my arm (read: squished my arm fat around) but it just felt like my bone was snapping in half when I moved it. I did have a nice little dry heave and .03 second black out BUT I MADE IT! And I guess now I have a scar I can make up cool stories about.

Do you have any scars with interesting and possibly not true stories? Did you really just drop your coloring books down the back of your couch?


K I love you and also brownies. GOODNIGHT!