(These Are My) Confessions | vol. 1

Ursher said to best: "I'm so throwed, I don't know what to do, But to give you part two of my confessions." I guess that doesn't pertain to this at all because a) I'm not what I'd call "throwed" and b) this is only volume 1 of my confessions. So, forget any of this just happened.

In this day and age of the internets, people want real. They want to be saved from wading through the thick mudslide of curated perfection and be hit in the face with all things relatable AF. And thank God, because it was getting pretty lonely out here in Real, USA where I’ve lived since 2010 with not a lot of neighbors.

You may have gotten to this page by seeing my promotion for it on Instagram. It was this picture with this caption:

  “CONFESSION: I’ve had KP on my arms since I was a teenager and I’ve also had anxiety since I was born. this lethal combo has led me to destroy my arms by way of picking at my KP. I have scarred myself beyond repair and hate my arms because of it. all those white dots you see? scars. I have crazy-defined triceps, but you can’t even tell through all the scarring. I envy the smooth, baby butt arms of girls and fantasize about what that must feel like; to not have to fight myself to not pick at it every day and never have to wear a jacket or long sleeves in the summer because yesterday’s “pick sesh” was particularly bad. I don’t like my arms and my anxiety is to blame.”

“CONFESSION: I’ve had KP on my arms since I was a teenager and I’ve also had anxiety since I was born. this lethal combo has led me to destroy my arms by way of picking at my KP. I have scarred myself beyond repair and hate my arms because of it. all those white dots you see? scars. I have crazy-defined triceps, but you can’t even tell through all the scarring. I envy the smooth, baby butt arms of girls and fantasize about what that must feel like; to not have to fight myself to not pick at it every day and never have to wear a jacket or long sleeves in the summer because yesterday’s “pick sesh” was particularly bad. I don’t like my arms and my anxiety is to blame.”

Now, that’s a serious ass confession. I felt moved to start this entire confessions thing out with a bang, but they won’t always be that raw and serious. In fact, what you’re about to read is far from it; that is unless you feel extremely passionate about the topics I’m about to cover and end up hating me because of my stances. If that’s the case then color me serious AF.

These are my confessions.


I don't like blueberries.

As a flavor? Sure. Like in a smoothie, as yogurt, or even in a cobbler? Great. But I despise raw blueberries. It's for sure a texture thing — I've just found that getting one with the exact right amount of firmness is next to impossible. At this point in my life, I've had too many mealy/mushy ones in my career to keep giving them chances — it's ruined me. So, if we ever dine together and I get a fruit cup that involves blubs — don’t be shy. They’re yours for the taking.

I don't really love rosé.

Yeah. I fucking said it and girls across the world (but mainly in the DFW area because that’s the majority of my reader base) synchronize-gasped. I'll drink it if everyone else is because god forbid I don't slay all day with rosé in a group setting, but outside of that, I will never pick it for a drink. In general, I don't like sweet drinks. I don't do white wine really and I stay far away from cocktails that are fruity af. Most importantly though, I've realized in my old age that sweet drinks (and worse yet, sweet bubbly drinks) almost always leave me feeling hungover hours later, with a foul, cloyingly sweet taste in my mouth. So, red wine > rosé forever and always for this gal.

I HATE saying "good morning" to people.

Seriously, I abhor it. If you're a co-worker or a barista, yes ok fine. Obviously I'm going to because I have to. But if you're just a random someone who happens to catch my eye within the confines of the office building or in the surrounding area, and you chirp "Morning!" don't be surprised when I barely mutter it back and keep my eyes on the floor or on my phone. I know — it's horrible and I'm a bitch. But I just hate it, you guys. The very first thing I wanna do in the morning is NOT talk to anyone. It's my only few moments by myself before I have to be a functioning human. So, I'm sorry if not saying "Morning!" back to you makes you hate me, but this is a safe space for my confessions — let's not forget that.

I don't like Justin Timberlake.

I don't like his face, his music, his acting. I have never and will never get on his bandwagon. It all bothers me — all of it. To an irrational point. I know — you're starting to question if I even have a soul. But, all I can be is myself and this bit of information is too much for you to handle, I completely understand. 

I've never seen "Friday Night Lights."

I know. But it came out when I was a little too young for it, and Ellen must've put her foot down and I never tried to sneak-watch it and haven't gotten back around to watching it since being old enough. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Direct messages on IG overwhelm me.

It's true, they do. I'm an extremely fast typist on both my phone and a regular computer, but just prefer a real keyboard > anything else. I so badly wish IG would allow access to your messages via desktop so I could bang out rapid-fire responses — it would make me feel so much less flustered. More than that, though, is how you can see when I've read your message. UGH IT STRESSES ME OUT, GUYS. Because SO often, I open a message at a completely inopportune time and can't answer right away and you see that and it makes me feel bad. If y'all wanted to email me your more in-depth queries or comments, THAT WOULD BE AMAZING. But I know IG is way easier since you’re already there in the app, so I just hope y'all understand why I get so overwhelmed and may not get back to you super fast after accidentally reading your message. Please still love me.

I never wipe off shopping carts.

Who has time for that? It's just too much. Also, I’m not trying to start my grocery shop pushing around a damp cart handle.

I took that strapless bra back.

I didn't know how to tell you and by the time I was ready to, it was too late. But basically, the strapless bra that I claimed was perfect — it wasn't. Once I got it and started trying on outfits with it, I realized it just didn't work. It came up way too far on the sides to the point where you could see it in almost every top I was trying to wear with it, so we had to part ways. So I’m sorry for singing it such praises before I really played around with it. And I’m sorry if you ended up buying it and realized the same thing I did. And I'm sorry for just now telling you. (If you know what movie I was just referring to with that cadence, you’re a star).

I'm over La Croix.

I feel like this isn't as big of a confession because it seems like the Internet finally admitted it for me. 

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But really. I was on the La Croix train for a while, I'll admit. When your office provides it for free, it's hard not to succumb. But I slowly and surely realized just how much I didn't like it. It truly tastes like a whisper of fruit. What's the point? For bubbles? I'd rather get some plain sparkling water and go the extra mile to squeeze fresh lemon into it. Or just drink Topo Chico on the regular like I do anyway because its bubbles cannot be matched. No fruit salad burp flavor necessary.

I am done with straight leg jeans.

Then again, I never really started with them. I’ve tried. Oh, how I’ve tried. I think I’ve ordered and promptly returned at least 6 different brands of straight-leg jeans, each one more horrific than the last. It’s not my fault that this tall ass, skinny ass influencers look so great in them and make me think I, too, could look just as great. Then, I get them and am rudely reminded of how short I am (5’4”), how much thigh I have, and how a straight up and down cut has never done well for me, not even as a dress. So, fuck straight leg jeans. Skinny ‘til I die with a side of mom and boyfriend jean because for some reason those cuts work on me but straight leg doesn’t.

I gained 5 pounds over the summer.

And, because of my previously mentioned shortness, went up a full size. Sigh. I’m not happy about it, guys. Yeah, I know — it’s “happy” weight from being in a great relationship, but I’M DONE BEING HAPPY (not really). I sort of went wheels off over the summer in terms of drinking and eating and missing too many workouts to count. So, as per usual, I’m ready to be at my best for the fall/winter in which I’m covered in clothes and no one can see the fruits of my labor. Oh well. That’s how it goes, I guess. I’ll probably expand on my new efforts to get back to where I was in a separate blog post because I think it deserves one. 


These were my confessions.

xox,

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