My mom loves to talk about the moment she knew I would grow up to be a storyteller. When I was about three years old she walked into our playroom and saw I wasn’t playing with any of my toys. Instead, I was sitting with a cardboard box over my head personifying my food as I ate it. I often created characters out of inanimate objects. I gave a rock I kicked around a beginning, middle, and an end (a tragic end because it ended up away from its rock friends).

Not all my stories end in tragedy. Although I’m a cynic and lean towards dark humor about our fucked up society, I’m also a romantic. I believe in human nature. I’m interested in the psychology of people and trends in how we act. My theories range from why we need to reform our dating app and education systems to why unhappy hour really should exist.

I’m a single woman who just turned 30 and moved across the country (after living with my parents for 4 years). I nanny to make my income. I’ve had crazy/fun/drunken times and difficult/existential/whatthefuckamidoing times. There are so many hilarious, ridiculous, relatable anecdotes from my life that I want to share. There are little fictionalized stories and random thoughts scrawled all over my hundreds of notebooks. Not all of them have a beginning, middle, and an end- but I can confidently say they’re more interesting than my story about the rock.

So once a day metaphorically put a box over your head and escape whatever work you’re doing. I’ll do my best to write you something that makes you laugh, or think, or feel seen, or thankful you don’t have the tabs open in your brain that I do.