I Can't, Vol. 33

I can't with writing for fun lately. And it sucks. My blog is my baby. It's my outlet for all things ridiculous, insightful, and creative. But, since starting this job and now going through a break-up, the will to make extra time to sit around and write clever words isn't there as much as I'd like it to be. But here it goes. And yeah, that's right. My boyfriend and I broke up. And...

I can't...

even begin to explain how badly I want to write a post about it. And not really even "it." Not the ins and outs of what went wrong or why or how or when or anything like that. I respect him and myself too much to share any real details. But about breakups in general; the emotions they conjure up, the stages of it all, the oft forgotten or overlooked side of things from the dumper's perspective. But, it's probably too soon. I'm not sure when these things aren't too soon, but I'm pretty sure it is right now.

I can't...

with the movie "Cake." Did any of you see it? Because, wow. That shit was bad. Like not "bad" as in hard to watch Jennifer Aniston doing something serious, but bad like... what a terrible movie. How the fuck did that get nominated for anything? Because it's Jen and she looked haggard for it? SMH. I couldn't even finish it. Really, I opted to re-watch an episode of the Gilmore girls for the 37th time. Yikes. And speaking of cake-related things...

I can't...

tell you what to do, but if you value my taste in anything at all, please heed my words: STAY AWAY FROM THE NEW BROWNIE BATTER OREOS. THEY ARE SICKENING. I ate half of one, and threw the entire package in the trash. FOR REAL. And don't give me the whole "how could you waste food like that?!" spiel. Please. First off, Oreos can hardly be classified as "food." Secondly, this particular flavor SHOULD be destroyed. Every package should be bought and set on fire or thrown immediately into a trash receptacle. Brownie batter — good. Oreos — good. Brownie batter + Oreos = a horrible decision Nabisco cleared for mass production. 

Untitled

I can't...

stress enough how much I will no longer be cutting my nails. The ingrown nails that I've managed to acquire as of late have shown me that I clearly have no idea what I'm doing when I attempt to trim on the curve of my nail, and I am done. Give me a nail file or give me literal death, because that's basically what an ingrown nail feels like anyway. Death.

I can't...

with my hangover this past Saturday. It was quite honestly like nothing I've ever experienced. Not even in college. Okay, maybe like twice in college. But never in adulthood. Not until Saturday. On Friday, my company threw its annual lake day in which we take buses to the local lake and basically drink for eight hours straight. First, clothed. Then, about 3-4 drinks in, in bathing suits because no one GAF. So from 11am on Friday until 7pm on Friday, I drank two beers, somewhere around 6-8 vodka sodas/cranberries, and took two shots  — one of which was pure vodka — and danced really, really hard in my bikini. Really hard. In my bikini. Needless to say, by the time I arrived home (safely because thanks, Uber!), I literally climbed into bed never to get out again except for a necessary Advil dosage at midnight, then again at 2am for a necessary Pepcid Complete dosage. Saturday was the first time in my life that the term #strugglebus became real. I wasn't a functioning human. I was a whisper of myself; a soulless body who was still somehow able to make it to a pre-meditated brunch, but was put to bed my her best friend directly after where I stayed until about 6pm Saturday night. I managed to order-in Thai food and watch the new Chris Farley documentary, and was back in bed by 10pm, READING. On a Saturday night. This is 28, guys. This is fucking 28. Below is photographic evidence of my state around 6:30pm on Friday. Untouched, in all its natural glory. You're welcome.

IMG_6070-2

I can't...

handle the maltreatment of the dogs that live next door to me, but there really isn't much I can do. As far as I know, they're not beaten. Or unfed. They're just kept outside literally all the time. No exaggeration, they're outside every hour of every day of every week of every months. Sun, rain, snow, sleet, freezing rain, 105º — no matter the weather, they are there. And the best part? They bark incessantly. It doesn't stop. In fact, it's such a constant in my life, I've become numb to it. I don't really hear it anymore unless I'm paying close attention. They're bigger dogs, but one of them has a loud, high-pitched, murderous screech of a bark. It's very sad to me that I've turned a deaf ear on the murderous screech, but what else could I do? I'm not about to get into a neighborly verbal war about their dogs. Fuck that. I'm just trying to live peacefully, even if that means no confrontation and being oddly unaffected by high frequency noises for the rest of my life.

I can't...

try to spell acquaintenannce or conveinent. There. That was me just typing out letters I know are in the word itself, but not in the correct order because those two words are impossible to write without spellcheck. 

I can't...

and won't ever get behind the movement for skinny jeans to not be "in" anymore. That's just, like, not right. The style has become a staple in both the American and international fashion world. Bring bootcut back if you want and sprinkle in some flare jeans if you must, but I'm not touching that shit. I like my jeans how I like my men: tight, fitted throughout the thigh and leg, and with a prominent beard.

I can't...

wait for pumpkin everything. And it's upon us, my friends. It is upon us. Soon, girls will be clad in plaid scarves, suede booties, and deeper lipstick shades smeared haphazardly onto their PSL Starbucks cups. And that is the day I will regain my faith in love, life, and the pursuit of having a normal body temperature again.

5a96de26-3ab1-4da6-82c0-e03ddd25c62d

I CAN'T...

figure out Snapchat. I had it when it first came out about three years ago or so, but then, no one was on it so I tired quickly of the ONE friend I had on there just sending me the dumbest low-res videos of late night parties he was at. However, since it's regained momentum this year, I decided to re-load it onto my worn out 5s and give it a go. But like, how? How do I even "go" on this thing, y'all? Do I send direct snaps or just keep adding to "my story"? What's the protocol? My Snap name is "icantemma." I guess, like, add me or something?

Snap ya later, bitches!

xox,

Signature_Small

emma1 Comment