a day in my life | part one
7 AM. Your eyes flutter open, you check the time, and turn your head to the cold side of the pillow. Your class starts later, and you have no early morning plans. The bed feels eight times nicer than it did when you slept into it the night before. The world is silent and undemanding. You wrap a blanket around you. You wish to go back to sleep.
But you thought too soon.
At 8, you awake, startled by the sound of the garbage truck that pulls up—8 AM, on the dot, always on time—each morning. You retrieve all your thoughts as you stand up from the bed of your empty apartment. You move your body a little to shake off the remaining slumber. Stretch as if you're going for a jog. Then not go for a jog.
You pour yourself tea, as you do every morning. As the water rises to a boil, you place your hand above it, to catch the warm steam that escapes the kettle's mouth.
The teabag sits for a minute or two, the water slowly changing colour to accept its presence. Your hands wrap around it like a tiny cup of warmth. You hold it close, you take a sip, you breathe. People think you wake early just to drink tea. You don't tell them you have a garbage truck to thank.
writing vs blogging: why they're different, and why i only care about one of them
I hate the word "blogger."
There, I said it. If blogging crimes were a thing, I just committed one. Escort me to my cell.
What has happened to me? Am I leaving my blog? Have I outgrown it? Have I become too full of myself? The answer to all of this is no; despite how inactive I've been, I still fully intend on keeping this blog. (At least it saves future me the energy of telling life stories to the grandkids—I'll just send them a link and they can read all about it from their portable holograms.)
But I've been on the Internet long enough to recognize that there is a difference between writers and bloggers. Not all writers are bloggers, and, much to my dismay, not all bloggers are writers. Even though the two may correlate, writing and blogging, I've found, can be two very different practices.
i can never be a minimalist–and that's okay
We all want to live in that clean, all-white, perfect, minimalistic dream home with two well-mannered kids and beautiful, Insta-worthy breakfasts in bed with our partner every Sunday morning. We owe this to "dream home" Pinterest boards and ~aesthetic~ Instagram feeds. The "goals" of millennials; wooden drawers, rose gold furnishings, excessive natural light, and a copy of Kinfolk sitting ever so gracefully on a posh, all-white, Ikea-grade coffee table.
When I first moved into my apartment, this idea was etched into my head. My home is going to be well-lit and spotless and look good from every angle, and I'm going to love it. I'll take all the blogger-esque photos I want in it. Just a few hand-selected pieces of decoration, and the rest will be ~clean and minimal~.
That being said, here I am, in my seventh month of living here, with just two words for you – constant cleaning.
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