Welcome back to my nightmare </3

I know - you’re shocked.

You’re looking at this post and squealing “PINCH ME!” Everyone in your house thinks you’re watching porn - that’s ok. Let them think that ;) They don’t have to know that your favourite blogger rose from her 3 year hiatus to grace you with the opinions literally not one person asked for. Close your bedroom door and pick your jaw up off the floor, - take this blog post as an opportunity for a moment of self care.

What did you do to deserve this content? Well, I guess I’ll start at the start by going through every day up until this point, since we all have nothing but time on our hands.

March 4th, 2017 - Brushed my teeth three times just for fun.

April 1, 2017 - Cried upon realizing I had no one to pull my “I’m pregnant!” or “I have the clap” prank on - (because I was sleeping with nobody).

May 8th 2017 - I buy spandex at Suzy Sheer.

June 8th 2017 - I roll both my ankles trying to put in a tampon in a porta potty.

June 9th 2017 - It’s more serious than I thought, I go to the hospital.

June 20th 2017 - I think my ankles are better so I go for a bike ride, but when I get off the bike my ankles are spaghetti ankles. I call in sick for work.

June 21- You know what? For times sake, I’ll just do three posts, one on 2017, 2018 and 2019 not only for the sake of being economical, but for the sake of my new long nails not breaking while writing this post. I have 30 minute window before these puppies start to peel, and I WILL NOT have that for the 2020 Holiday Season where I see no one and do nothing.

So, turns out a lot can happen in 3 years - but it ALSO turns out that literally NOTHING can happen in a year if you let it! I found that out during this pandemic when Machine Gun Kelly and Taylor Swift made 38957 albums, and I didn’t even end up in my best friend most listened to on Spotify. “WHAT KIND OF FRIENDS DO YOU HAVE SAM?” I’ll tell you - the kind that don’t listen to the ONE song I released this year on repeat indefinitely, and for that, I forgive them. Like I don’t get how Taylor Swift is still writing music - like besides the fact that nothing is going on in the world (and she’s not about to sing about the Race War…. I don’t think?) - it’s like you have a boyfriend, you’re 30, you live in a cozy cabin in Nashville - how are you still writing about closure and shit? What is she doing? Is she taking Iowaska and revisiting her childhood? If people know the answer to this, DM me. I won’t take Iowaska but I’m down to do other stuff to kickstart my brain - including, but not limited to:

But I digress. Anyway, why am I here? What is this about? Are your witnessing my third psychotic break? Well... maybe. But also this: when I started this blog, I was 22 and super concerned about my life’s direction. And it should come as no surprise that what sparked me to come back to it is that 6 years later, I find myself in the same position - only this time I have a dog, a boyfriend and a house. If you told me when I was 22 that having all those things would still leave me feeling like a nomadic spirit, wandering this plane like a wide eyed screaming ghost (see photo below).

I’d say “Well sister, best get on some antidepressants because life has been TOO good to you and you’re still searching.” The joke is on you 22 year old hypothetical me, I AM on antidepressants, and even a solid SSRI cannot make me feel like my jolly old self again*

*To clarify, I have actually only been “JOLLY” two times in my life - once in 2018 at my friends wedding and once in after I got an Ativan prescription, which you can read about in posts for those years that I may write and publish by 2030.

Here’s what lead to my mental state reverting to that of YESTERYEAR (I will never know how to use that word and I don’t care to find out!) I think you’ll be surprised to know that 2 slight changes robbed me of my identity, and I’ll share them with you now. Put on a parka, because these revelations are CHILLING!

1) I started wearing a fanny pack.

I feel like this is self explanatory, but I’ll elaborate anyway for you dumb fucks. LMAO you know when you type something and laugh out loud? I just typed "dumb fucks" and snorted so loud I woke up my dog. Back to bed bitch! Mommy is trying to reclaim her identity! Anyway, as a deluxe person, I have a lot of designer bags - however, I just wear a fanny pack all the time now. It’s not really a fashion thing so much as it is I got used to not having something hanging off my arm. I feel free. And by putting freedom over fashion, I’ve lost at least 1/3 of myself this way.

2) I learned to cook.

I am furious about this one. Like FURIOUS. I’m going to say this right now: I don’t give a FUCK about cooking. (OR PLANTS! Unrelated but while I'm pissing off people who cook I'll also jump in there and say FUCK PLANTS TOO!!! lmao). I hate cooking. I don’t give a SHIT how it comes out, I don’t enjoy the process, I don’t care how it looks in the end, I don’t feel full of pride, I don’t care if Joe (my boyfriend) likes it when he’s eating it, I literally give zero fucks about the whole process. I never wanted to be someone who cooked, I am a restaurant eating, takeout type bitch who says "this rounds on me boys!" and smokes a fat stogie.

PAUSE: (This is an edit from future Sam). Ok so I was just confirming that that's how you spell STOGIE (it is, which is ridiculous) but I'm realizing I have been using the word stogie incorrectly, as the definition for stogie is a THIN INEXPENSIVE CIGAR. A stogie is for PEASANTS and I've been using it to sound rich! Enjoy the rest of this article.

Alas - I now can make ANYTHING. I’m not kidding. Anything. You want a fuckin' pie from scratch? Done. Any type of meat? Sure. Bone. Fucking. Marrow? I can do that. You want CEREAL? I can do that too, I’m not flashy. A vegan Alfredo? Honey, I’m not even close to vegan and I will make you the best vegan Alfredo your sexy mouth has ever tasted, all of this is to say - I fucking hate myself.

You’re like, big deal, you wear a fanny pack and you cook. No, you don’t get it. Sit down, I’m going to tell you something. And this is my diary entry to myself, and for you to read.

I grew up in a conventional house - that’s nurture. I grew up where women had a role and men had a role. Simultaneously, I grew to be someone who enjoyed questioning and rebelling against anything conventional. I guess that’s nature. I don’t want to be a MOM, I don’t want to be a house wife, I don’t want to be a fucking cook, I don’t want to wear a fanny pack - I want to be a hot, edgy bitch who tours and does cool shit and then when I'm like 45 I have kids Drew Barrymore style - and tell them all about how I was a cokehead at Studio54 when I was 15 - and what I hate this pandemic for most (besides the deaths obviously - but in relation to ME) - is that it made me someone I don’t even recognize. The things I do every day, I don’t relate to them. I don’t relate to taking a dog for a walk, cleaning my condo, kissing my boyfriend goodbye while he goes to work, sitting on the couch, uninspired and (seemingly) unable to do any of my art because nothing is going on - trying, failing, getting up, COOKING FUCKING DINNER, not wearing makeup for the 10th day in a row, looking like shit, spooking my boyfriend when he get's home - "AH!" *Hits me with a broom* "Oh it's you - Sorry sam I thought a sewer rat got in here again."

And scene :)

Anyway! I sat with that sentiment for the past couple months and I realized - I should write this down.

Maybe I’ll write something down every week. Maybe I should make this a regular thing.

Since I usually end this with a song, I'll end it with one of my own. Fuck pride, fuck dignity, fuck everything! Let's light it up!!!!! I'm going to PRISON BEFORE THIS YEAR IS OVER!!!

Hope everyone reading this is alive and well. But mostly alive. I can't have a primarily walking dead audience like last time, it fucks up my analytics.

xo Sam :)

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