Every morning in America, we wake up too early. We dilute ourselves with protein shakes, bottled water, imported citrus, and caffeine. We package ourselves up– we are business, casual, or some hybrid of these evidently inseparable adjectives. We take the label gun to our lapels and enter the world as experts in medical billing, fact checking, and submarine sandwich making.

This weekend, my mother insisted I stop “pigeonholing” myself. In context, she suggested I stop calling myself another whiney semi-functional product of white suburban America; a label I have held near and dear as long as I can remember. Too tuned in to turn on, and too turned on to drop out. Angry, mostly at myself, and wondering when the universe will let me cash in on the cosmic 401K.

And so what, right?

Not only do I have clean water and a dry place to sleep, mom; I have the whole back of the 7-11 to choose from, and a flannel-wrapped pillowtop nest! I panic when I don’t have cell reception, complain about slow drivers, and concern myself with which fragrance of hand soap to purchase. When people ask me “what’s wrong,” at best, my answer will contain some banal commentary on the weather or my personal financial situation (whatever that is).

What is wrong? What? What is the catalyst for these sleepless nights, these inadequate days, these incessant rhetorical questions??

The fuck if I know. Welcome to my blog.


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