Letters to My Ex-Boyfriends: I Am Sensitive and You Changed My Life, But Also We Were Often Drunk Idiots

***

Please read this, I won't write anything further, and I'm skeptical you'll ever get around to reading the email I wrote you back in July. That letter took a lot to write, and it had meant a lot to think that you had read my words and hopefully understood what I felt. I was pretty crushed to realize that never happened. I'd like to pretend otherwise, but it's been hard for me these past months to act as though we no longer exist to each other. I think about you and the times that we had, and I miss you. From hearing you talk, it sounded like I was pretty forgettable, and that made me feel pretty stupid for how much it all meant to me. It was hard to hear you so nonchalant, it was hard to feel as though I was so easily non-existant to you, and probably had been for some time. I was angry because I was hurt, because I wanted my thoughts and feelings to matter. I wanted to matter. I believed you that time in January after that first big fight, and we were outside the park when you told me all those really kind things, and I cried, and you hugged me for a long time. I believed you every time after that when it felt like we got to a moment where we could stop being defensive, and instead talk to each other sincerely, genuinely, as people who cared about each other. I believed the things you told me in your hammock- how much I meant to you, how much you cared, and that I never give up on you. You were right. But here we are. I still don't believe you're the nonchalant, disconnected, colder version of yourself that you've put forward. I know you, and that's not who you really are. That's the jacket you wear when you want to appear unmoved and unphased and untouched by anything. You are not hollow on the inside. You are sensitive and feel things more deeply than most people, and I think because of this, because it wells up inside you and you don't know what to do with it, it gets projected outwards in ways you don't always mean. You can never stay still, always need to keep going, because it's the only way you know how to externalize the chaos building up inside you before it swallows you whole. You've submitted to the chaos, and it's leading you to push other people, repeatedly, until everyone is acting out all the time and things become explosive. You were one of my good friends, one of my best friends, and we used to talk about anything and everything together. That's what I've missed. I think we were really lucky to find that, because it's rare. It feels sad to think back on that. My hope was always that someday we might be able to talk again openly, sincerely, genuinely, even just to catch up. It's the surface-level niceties, the casual "what's swingin?" that get me upset, because we were never just casual acquaintances, because there were things that needed to be repaired before moving forward, and casual feels like an attempt to avoid any effort and hope it all gets forgotten. Life is short, and to be loved, by anyone, is a gift. How special it is, to have people in our lives who care about us that much. Having met you, I am better for it. You taught me how to surf, and it's changed my life. It's one of the greatest gifts someone could give me. It taught me how to be brave again, how to feel strong, and how to do the things I'm afraid of. Some of my favourite memories will always be of our surf adventures, and maybe also the time you hid in my closet for upwards of 20 minutes to scare me. You have so much capacity for great things, please believe that. Don't do what's easy, or convenient, or fast; go headfirst into all the things you're terrified of. Stop using low blows, stop saying things to hurt, stop pushing, stop making the situation worse because you don't like confrontation. Listen. Just show up, and listen. Be open, be honest, be vulnerable, be kind, because that's who people want to know, that's who they like. And if it turns out that we never see each other again, just know that I'm so glad I met you. It's been one hell of a ride,

-Natalie

Letters To My Ex-Boyfriends: I Am Sensitive And I Think You Hated My Underwear

***

This isn't about someone being good, or bad, or right, or wrong. This is about in the ways that matter, I don't think we are the same. And that makes me sad.

I don't know what the old you was like. I'm not sure I know the new you all that well either. But I think you are trying, and the beauty is in trying. We're all trying, in our own small ways. It's our grace, our way of reaching out beyond ourselves, and when I see that in you, in the way you move, I can see the goodness of who you are. I wish you could see how beautiful it is.

I was mad, so mad. I was mad I let you into my heart, and into my home, and when that scared me and I said please don't do this unless you mean it because it will hurt too much if you don't, you held me while I cried on your kitchen floor and said, "It's okay. Trust me. I'm not going anywhere." But then you became unsure, and it was like being held underwater and the air has been squeezed from your chest, your body limp. I was so sad. And I didn't know what to do; it was everything I was afraid of. I think I felt betrayed because I had shown you my vulnerability, because I had said, "Please don't hit me here." And listen, it's okay you changed your mind, it really is, it just hurt is all. It felt like you didn't want me anymore, regardless of whether that was true. And to be honest, I don't know if that is true or not. It doesn't matter, I'm not mad anymore.

But I think what is true, because you said it, is that you aren't sure if you are attracted to me. That's confusing, and I admit that hurts a little too, because I've been in your bed and you've been in mine, and I think what maybe neither one of us wants to say out loud is that if you aren't sure then you probably aren't. That doesn't make you bad or wrong, it's just what is, and that's okay. My heart's a little bruised, but who can blame it for wanting love? There's beauty in that too, I think, in wanting to be carried and asking to be loved, even when our darkest shadows tell us we won't, even when our voices are too hoarse to ask.

I don't know if you hear me when I say these things, I don't know if you understand my language. And that's okay too, but I can't get very close to you. The only thing that makes sense to me is to surround myself with kind, sensitive people who can give their compassion freely and easily; I need it like air, like sun, like water, like blood. It is my lifeblood. These are the people that keep me alive. I can't sustain casual friendships or relationships because I'm too thin-skinned and intense and prone to my feelings falling out of my mouth. So I am saying goodbye.

Goodbye, keep trying, keep breathing, goodbye, you will love, you will be loved, goodbye, goodbye, you will be so happy your heart will break open, goodbye, I don't want to do this, goodbye. Goodbye. I'm sorry. I will miss you.

I will remember you at the beach, sitting in our wetsuits on that log with Charlie sprawled across us, watching the waterfall, watching as the water split. It was a moment that temporarily halted time and space. It was worth it.

Keep reaching for the light, Zen Flower.

- Natalie

Why I Deleted Tinder

Dating these days is a nightmare. This isn't a revelation, I'm not breaking new ground with this, but has it always been this way? Has the speed and ease and commodification of humans as disposable hot-or-not post cards through online dating turned most of us into robotic pterodactyls capable of expressing all emotions except the human ones? I know from what I've heard from friends, colleagues, and peers, most have some terrible dating story. Most have several in fact. I've got a whole a closet full of bat shit crazy stories that my lazy imagination could not have fabricated even if it tried! 
It's such a common thing and happens to so many that it seems meaningless, and yet when it happens to you, nothing feels more personal. Rejection isn't meaningful; it isn't a verdict on your personality or your looks or your worth. You know that, I know that, but our soft, squishy hearts don't. Sometimes it's a little sting, our egos take a small bruising. Sometimes it's a harder blow and a few internal organs get perforated. We cannot hope for great love without the possibility of aching rejection. But I have a plea:

Humans of the world, let us be kind to each another. Please show up.

Let me tell you about a recent experience. Here are the boring parts: 

I matched with a gentledude on the Tinds. We seemed to hit it off right away. He was pursuing me, and I was developing a pretty big mental crush on this dude who seemed right up my alley and my kind of weird. He indicated he felt the same way! We made a date, and he texted me 15min prior to takeoff to say he was on his way.

Here are the fun parts:

I waited for over 30 minutes out in the open, in plain view, in a bright orange skirt that was slightly weather inappropriate but chosen for its vibrancy and because it moves beautifully and reminds me of Miranda Otto in LOTR: The Twin Towers when she walks out of the Golden Hall (This scene is literally etched in my mind and heavily informs my style choices. Because why not?), i.e., I feel like I rule kingdoms in this motherfucker.

Anyway, so, I waited in my confidence skirt, stupidly excited to meet someone suspiciously great. And with every minute that went by, every form in the distance that on closer inspection wasn't him, my excitement dimmed. Our egos will do anything to save themselves. Maybe he got lost? Maybe he's at the wrong end of the beach? Maybe he got hit by a bus? Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe I've been... stood up.

And there it was, the airy, billowing excitement had given way to a heavy humiliation. You know what? I was sad. My bruises were already yellowy-green and purple. And I probably wouldn't have even bruised if there hadn't been a healthy serving of earnest interest from him! There was also definitely a little insult to injury in him having read receipts on his phone, knowing he had seen my messages asking where he was, and yet, no reply. And my ego feels the need to clarify that this wasn't just a few casual text conservations that culminated in "Let's go for a walk on the beach." This dude was pursuing HARD, and appealing to the things that make me excited about someone, and making it explicitly clear that he wanted to meet, and then LET ME KNOW HE WAS ON HIS WAY. Jesus, WHY BOTHER???

There has to be a certain artery of cruelness in people who do this. And listen, I get it, I'm not the first person this has happened to, this is the pulse of the way we interact with each other these days, and this is a pretty minor thing to be writing whiny 1200 word personal essays about. But it bothers me. It bothers me that someone was calculating enough to let me know they were on their way, and then heartless enough to let me wait for them to never show up. It bothers me that this happens to my friends and my acquaintances and anyone else who may have invested the tiniest molecule of hope in someone. I don't want us to give up hope, even when all the evidence screams that we should. Please keep hoping, please keep caring, please keep showing up.

Because what's the alternative? I don't want to go through life assuming all people could be this callous, even though my experiences have taught me they absolutely can. I don't want to harden myself to the world to make sure I no longer bruise. I was really excited to meet this person. I hadn't been this excited in years. I can't tell you how embarrassed I felt to realize it was just a cruel joke. It's hard not to internalize that as, "If someone seems to show a lot of interest and seems attracted to know more about you, assume they have deceitful motives." This is not the first time I've had that lesson.

Here is where it gets creepy:

The next day, after I began writing this, I was still really bothered by this whole thing. Something was nagging at me. I had thought it was strange that this person told me their name was "Dylan Rhyder", but their Facebook account was "Dylan Rhydon". I was very suspicious when I was waiting for this "Dylan" and called his phone and it went to a voice mail for a name I didn't recognize (it sounded like a business name or something, but I couldn't hear it very well). I then proceeded to freak the fuck out when I reverse image searched his pictures, realized they were the pictures of a Brazilian jiu jitsu fighter named Marcus Almeida, and that whomever this person actually was could have easily sat watching me wait for him, and then watched me walk home. And then I realized how much information about myself I had given away without even thinking: He knew my full name, what neighbourhood I lived in, what gym I went to and when, where else I spent time outside my home, what time I was at work (but luckily not where), and some information about my family. I may not have suddenly spiralled into a storm of fear and panic had I not had previous life experiences with people using this kind of information to create a parallel universe of misery. 

With that, I was done. Delete, delete, delete. I called a friend who talked me down and eased my fear. I'm lucky to have such good friends who are understanding and patient when I call them in tears about something that has triggered me. But they were right, as much as we'd like to trust the people we come across, we shouldn't, not without them earning it. I was dumb, especially considering my history, to be so open with information about myself. There is so much pain in the world, and so few with the internal tools to keep from externalizing it in hurtful ways, maybe it's not a bad idea to wear a little body armour. 

I used to think that we should give our trust freely to those around us until they gave us reason not to- I don't think that anymore.

I Saw Ghostbusters And This Is Why It's Important

 

 

This past week I went and saw the new Ghostbusters, and I could not have been more thrilled. I admit, my interest was fuelled far more by own feminist agenda rather than a genuine affection for the franchise. I don’t remember much about the original films other than it was a little too scary for my young, very sensitive self, and that part with the evil ghost in the refrigerator, so at no point was this new reboot (let’s be clear about the difference between reboot and remake) in danger of destroying the precious memories of my childhood existence. And I want to tackle this ridiculous wildebeest right the fuck now- butt-hurt dudes of the world, here is your siren call:

 

IF THE POWER OF VAGINAS CAN DECIMATE YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING CHILDHOOD, THEN THE EMOTIONAL SCAFFOLDING UPON WHICH YOU HAVE BUILT YOURSELF SOUNDS PRETTY GODDAMN FRAGILE. Maybe you secretly/not so secretly hate women, or think that it's a fact that women just aren't funny, or just think that Melissa McCarthy isn't shaped right to be anything other than the butt of a joke. I don't know, but if the idea of four women taking on the lead roles in a film offends your sensibilities in one of these or similar ways then FUCK YOU, YOU ARE A SEXIST FUCK. Period. Fin. Goodbye.

 

Don't even get me started on those trying to trot out, "Well, I don't see why it had to be all women and not both men and women." I know this sounds crazy, but there ARE men in this movie! Like a whole bunch of them! Thor even contributes as kind of part of the team once he learns how to pick up the phone! None of them happen to be the leads, that's all! "B-b-but, that's not very inclusive! That's reverse sexism!" Oh boy. When I hear this kind of shit, it makes me want to walk out into moving traffic, flail my arms from side-to-side, and just start screaming at full volume. It's not, there's no such thing, and YOU ARE WRONG. Free speech me all you want, have whatever kind of opinion you want, but having an opinion doesn't exclude it from wrong, sexist, nor from you trying to take away from something that is important.

 

Listen up tear-soaked Butt-Hurters, this isn't about you or your childhood. This is about giving women the opportunity to feel what it's like to identify with something they've never seen. This kind of representation is essential, not just for women, but for all minorities; we NEED more representation in mainstream ways if they are ever to be looked at as anything other than less, or not smart enough, or funny enough, or just not who want we to see in certain roles. We only succeed when there is no "other".
 

I'm mad as hell I even have to go into this bullshit, so let's get to the movie itself: I thought it was fucking fantastic. It wasn't perfect, but it pulled its weight. I think the only place where it really failed was in making the one black woman of the group the only one who wasn't a scientist or engineer. Nonetheless, The acts were all evenly loaded, the pacing kept its speed, the jokes landed and I laughed out loud several times. The script was thoughtful and intelligent and still light enough for a summer movie. Maybe the action sequences could've been trimmed a little; I was more interested in the scenes between the women than I was with them fighting the ghost of Gangs Of New York Daniel Day Lewis, but, oh well. They pretty much had me from the start anyway when it opened with Zach Woods touring a bunch of people through a supposedly (but then actual) haunted mansion, highlighting the house's features such as the "face bidet" and the "anti-Irish fence". Also before I forget I would like to mention that Kate McKinnon effortlessly stole my heart forever until the end of time and I will not rest until we are married. I fucking LOVED her character. I've proclaimed her as my new spiritual concierge in both life and fash-un. If nothing else, go see it for her and her hair and her unrelenting confidence and swagger. And then go watch Leslie Jones watching Game of Thrones with Seth Meyers because she is naturally hilarious and fucking PUMPED that Winterfell belongs to the Starks again. Oh and OMAAAAAAAAAR!
 

This movie is important, and I hope you see it. I had full blown waves of emotion watching this and I nearly fucking cried several times. I realize this is not a terribly high bar considering I also cried during Fast&Furiouser 7, but I'm being sincere. I had to hold back my tear duct oceans several times because I felt so proud and so encouraged and so moved to see women so well represented in a giant summer movie. This isn't a familiar feeling for me, or I'd hazard a guess, for most women. We know what it feels like to be marginalized, to be overlooked, to be a supporting character and never the lead; we know what it's like to be told to keep our voices down, to be told either directly or in more easily digestible ways to make ourselves smaller and quieter and to take up less space. 

 

And dudes, I'm not yelling at you! I'm yelling specifically at the Butt-Hurters. Men are an essential part of my life and my loves, and I have them in my home and my heart and even my bed of all places! But this is the actual temperature of the room we are sitting in. We're all sweaty as fuck and the gentlemen are all sitting with their legs spread open, airing out their balls, and the women are all contorting their bodies in uncomfortable ways, trying to hide their underboob sweat. Which is CRAZY, because we're all in this hot as fuck metaphorical room together. Let's all just admit to our ass sweat! It's a perfectly normal response to the situation we all happen to be in together! But gentlemen, here's what's happening- what you can't see in this holy hell of a sweatlodge is the sign above the door that reads:   
 

"REMEMBER LADIES, unless you look like a walking sex doll, you can go fuck yourself and march directly into the incinerator making this goddamn room so hot, because you're lack of fuckability renders you offensive and repellant and disposable."

It's a long sign.

 

BE COMPLIANT, BE ACCOMMODATING, BE PLEASING- this is what we are taught and this is why the new Ghostbusters is so important, whether it set out with those goals at heart or not. I got to spend 116 minutes at my local, blockbuster-centric movie football stadium watching four smart, competent, funny as hell women play four smart, competent, funny as hell women. They weren't the sidekicks, they weren't the joke, they didn't exist to define someone else. They were women I could relate to and feel inspired by and also want to be a part of their fun. I can't imagine what it could be like to be a kid and see myself in a character like one of those ladies and think, "That Holtzmann, she's weird and off-beat and smart and that's what makes her SO COOL. I want to be just like her." Imagine where our girls would go, who they would turn out to be. Imagine they learned that they can be the lead, run the show, and get shit done because they've seen representations of what that looks like. Imagine they grew up to be women whose worth wasn't determined by the symmetry of their face and the shape of their bodies, but by the weight of their words, the strength of their actions, and the conviction with which they moved. 
 

The world is afraid of women who don't comply, who refuse to be accommodating, and who don't give a fuck about being pleasing. They are terrified of where they will go and what they will do. But you know what? The world is afraid of strong men too. They are afraid of the men that cry, that know expression beyond anger, that give voices to those who do not, and who fight for those who can not.  It shouldn't be about fear, it shouldn't be about sides, it shouldn't be me vs you or us against them. Lift me up so I can see the world from your view and let's reach together. The beauty is in reaching for the grace to no longer have to fight, to no longer have to yell or push or climb, but to stand as we are without apology. Let's do this together.

Take us out, Ms. Knope.

"If I seem too passionate, it’s because I care. If I come on strong, it’s because I feel strongly. And if I push too hard, it’s because things aren’t moving fast enough. This is my home. You are my family. And I promise you — I’m not going anywhere."

-Leslie Knope, Parks and Recreation, Season 2/episode 15

I Saw Tarzan and I This Is What I-- Holy Fucking Abs

So last week and I went and saw Tarzan, and despite the fact that I couldn't remember where I parked my car, I was surprisingly sober the whole time!

Let's get this straight, I'm not entirely convinced vampire Eric took on this role for any reason other than he didn't feel like having to work for upwards of a year afterwards. And who can blame him? If my upper body and infinity abs made people want to throw bags of money at me, I'd be accepting roles in Battleship 2 through 13. How the fuck they got Christoph Waltz and Samuel L. Jackson is beyond me. Wait, I forgot about Snakes On A Plane; I take that last part back.

Anyway, so Vampire Eric is sad and broody because he traded jungle life for Downton Abbey life, and now a bunch of jerks were making him feel bad for becoming the sad, moody Jon Snow of lords. Samuel L. Jackson in a wig tells Eric that Trump is trying to build a wall in the jungle or something, so Eric decides to go back, and also begrudgingly takes his wife. They all get to the jungle and Tarzan erotically nuzzles some lions (GET SOME!!!), they find an airbnb in the village Mrs. Tarzan grew up in, and then sing some camp songs.

Okay here's where things get fuzzy. I admit, my attention lapsed a little bit. I realise this was not even an hour in. Something about Christoph Waltz showing up and trying to kidnap Vampire Eric, but then they steal his wife instead, and then Eric and Samuel L Jackson go all Mantracker through the jungle to find her. HERE'S WHERE I STARTED PAYING ATTENTION AGAIN- Vampy Eric comes across the gorillas he used to live with, but now he has to fight them because of a somewhat loose plot point, and ALL CLOTHES ABOVE THE WAIST COME OFF!!! I asked my friend Jill to grab my smelling salts because it was likely I might pass out. The best part? Eric doesn't even bother to put his shirt back on FOR THE REST OF THE MOVIE. Money. Well. Spent.

Hooooooo, I don't even really know what else happened besides a bunch of wildebeests stampeding through what looked like quite a lovely, albeit likely enslaved, little seaside city. Vampire Eric's ridiculous fucking upper body pretty much left me comatose. I mean honestly, how long did they have to post-pone production because every female (and possibly male) on set kept spontaneously becoming pregnant just by the sun hitting Eric's abs the right way? And listen, I don't want to sound completely superficial, but there is definitely some kind of black magic swirling around those kind of obliques and deltoids. Take a look at any of the most recent train wrecks in my life, and they all involve impossible you're-going-to-regret-this abs, or muscle-ey this-is-a-huge-mistake biceps, or a fantastic he-might-actually-be-homeless ass. All these goddamn HOTT BODDS are just sorcerers just trying to distract us from the PATRIARCHY! Or possibly just some gaping plot wholes.

So Vampire Eric defeats Christoph Waltz by FLEXING off the prayer beads he was trying to strangle him with, Samuel L. Jackson is still in his wig, and they all live happily ever after in the jungle. Eric still can't find his shirt. HAPPY FUCKING ENDING, INDEED!

ALIVE

Sometimes it's hard to see the magic, especially when terrible things in the world are happening. Sometimes it's hard not to see how pointless and bleak and tragic and heartbreaking just existing in the world can be.

I was walking home down Robleda the other day, and I could see the ocean and the mountains and the clouds looked like the ashes of fireworks after they begin to fade from the sky. Sia was in my ear singing in her beautiful, broken wail "I'm still breathing, I'm still breathing, I'm ALIVE." 

I could feel the wind against my skin, the percussion beat of my heart in my chest, I could hear and feel as I exhaled out loud. My body was limestone; solid but malleable to the forces around it. It was a moment of supersymmetry connecting me with the world at large, the universe, the elements, the past, the present, the future; It was a portal through which everything had converged and being alive suddenly felt weightless. All this because the wind was blowing in my face and the lyrics of a pop song were just right. It was like Pharrell Williams himself, ever the consummate spirit guide, was telling me to feel the fucking magic of being alive as a person in the world. I almost cried.

One of the things I like to ask people when I meet them is, "What makes you feel alive?" I love hearing how it's answered, especially when the response includes the mundane little things that remind me how to see the magic in the most unexpected places. I like asking it because I think it gives me clues as to how people see the world and what is symbolic to them. Some of my favourite answers have been: warm rain, a smile, fast cars, moss, the sound of the trees, ice cream in the summer, mid-day naps, Thor's biceps (mine).
But it's in these tiny, beautiful, ordinary things that we find the magic.

I think it takes becoming very quiet, and breathing, and then you start to see it. You start to see the magic floating on the breeze, and it opens you to a generosity, a kindness, a grace that feels weightless. You start to see it in the faces of the people you pass, in the hearts of those whose thoughts you're in. When I'm still enough, I see it in the flowers flowing in the wind, in the tranquillity of the trees, in the ever-changing shape and mood of the ocean; I hear it in the rain falling outside my window at night, and in the soft snores of my dog when he sleeps; I feel it in a first kiss, and in the hands of those I love.

Sometimes it's all too much. There's too much pain and horror and injustice spilling over, blotting out any light, erasing any magic, weighing our limbs down, too heavy to even move. And yet a spark remains. We remain.

Despite my mystical, magic conjuring walk, I still arrived home to find my dog demanding to know where I'd been again all day, the underwear I desperately needed hadn't yet arrived in the mail from The Gap, my laundry was still piled on top of the chair that serves no purpose, and 45 minutes before I to had run off to Street Fighter class. Obviously the bulk of my concerns were petty and inconsequential and jesus how could I be whining over this kind of shit when people are being massacred? Suddenly the magic was gone. I thought, "Fuck off Sia I'm hungry let's talk about hanging from the chandelier another time. I'm tired and I probably should have washed my hair this morning." 

So I sat down at my table to write this, and there it was. The single pink daisy in the mason jar, facing into the last ray of light that shines through my living room when the sun goes down. There it was in the smallest, most mundane of places; the beauty and heartbreak and tragedy and magic of the world held in the single petal of a wilting flower.

I'm still breathing. I'm still breathing. I'm alive.

Letters To Angie: Redacted Hotel

Angie,

You hussy.

Hahahahaha! What you wrote made me laugh out loud.

Redacted Hotel is going well! I just did a practical exam. I was pretty nervous! I think I did okay though. We'll see. 

Also, I kind of miss you. I guess? I don't know, I sort of forgot what you look like to be honest. Hahaha! JUST KIDDING!

Oh god do I miss you. When the wind blows, it gently whispers your name, and a single tear rolls down my cheek, reminding me of the ocean (okay, strait) that keeps us apart. I feel the weight of that tear on my skin, and it recalls the existential lament of the ethereal memory of my love disconnected from your presence. My soul is heavy with longing. Angie, my dearest Angie! Wherefore art thou?!? I know the answer is probably: at home or at the spa, but play along, damn it.

Anyway. It is pretty boring. I wake up every morning at 6:15am, put my alarm on snooze until roughly 6:26am, and then go for a run. Realistically, it's more of a light jog. Probably more accurately, something just slightly above a jaunty walk. Picture the way really old people run who might have gout and a hip replacement and are only running because they got lost and are delirious and probably only have another 3-5 months to live. That is how I run. I do that for 20 gruelling minutes, and then I shower, get dressed, go to breakfast, and then we train until 4pm. After that I read my emails in my room, eat some snacks I probably shouldn't, go for another "run" along the river, go for dinner, go back to my room and study while watching The Bachelor, and then pick out my outfit/shoes and sock combination for the next day. Rinse and repeat for 3 weeks, and that is my world. I attempted to go on Tinder, mostly for entertainment value, but I promptly turned it back off after getting a message that read, "I bet you take it real good up the ass." That same guy also had 4/5 of his pictures of him doing squats at the gym, so maybe this shouldn't have been a surprise. In any case, that was enough to scare me away. Non merci indeed!

Okie dokie, it's almost lunch time so I'm going to head out. I'm going to hazard a guess and say that pasta is probably on the menu. They serve pasta every fucking day. I'm getting pretty goddamn tired of variations of penne with sauce. But they do have pie. Dean would be in heaven.

Love,

Natalie

xoxoxoxooo