I determined once (in a very good unsober state) that the majority of my life's disappointments were caused by the vast amount of 80's movies and tv shows that were burned into my young pulpy brain.
I thought that school, and high school, and boys, and parties with high school boys, would happen a certain way. That marriage and children and a house and car and haircut appointments and Mom necklaces would all look this way and make me feel this way. I knew the ups and downs of life; at 11 years old I traced them like memories I already had when scanning the covers of the VHS New Releases, or devouring the latest issue of The Babysitter's Club.
This is what I would turn into. Own. Feel. Kiss. Love. Marry Corey Haim.
Cool. So fucking cool.
Did you know a life without sugar is JUST BARELY worth living? I'm struggling here, folks. After a rad weekend in Victoria, the only bright spots of this long slog of a week were finally diving into Eleanor & Park, and picking up The Leftovers after a dismal 4th episode had turned me off. Oh, and also the weather in Vancouver right now is like the dreamiest of dreamboats. And I am still alive after drinking raw eggs blended into coffee. MORE ON THAT BAD ASS FRONT SOON. #RockyAsFuck
And now, here's 10 links that I loved this week.
Do you listen to podcasts? (Well, other than my #yupnopepodcast of course.)
I listen to NPR's This American Life to feel smarter and more adult.
This week's episode's first segment features an 11 year old entrepeneur named Asia Newson aka Super Business Girl.
This tiny ambitious beast blew my mind.
What was I doing when I was 11?
Eight years ago. Lightheaded with excitement, sitting in a muggy car infused with the fumes of our fast food breakfast, my brand new fiancé (formerly smoldering boyfriend), and I danced in our seats (okay, I danced while he smoldered), and talked over top of each other like parrots in a zoo.
We were engaged.
Hot crunchy hash browns were jammed down throats in between the first snatches of real planning. As we wound the car home from Washington (where the proposal had stilled the wind on a light-dappled seaside boardwalk), the wedding party was the first speed bump. My soon-to-be husband had approximately 477 friends that deserved to stand beside him, in squeaky shoes and musty rented suits, while I had always been more Pee Wee Herman with my inner circle. (A loner, Dottie, a rebel.)
I had three very close girlfriends; we got high and watched reality TV weddings; we perfected the art of homemade nachos; we laughed until we squirted pee into our laps, then ran hobbling and laughing harder to the bathroom.
But I needed one more.
Our friend Nick had recently returned home from travelling with a fancy new souvenir – a girl from New Zealand named Sarah. (Hi Sarah! This is the intro to my story about you. I hope that’s okay. Also, tough tits if it’s not.)