Six Months

My mother died six months ago. She keeps dying in my mind everyday. For a minute or two each day I forget that the life I knew is forever changed. I forget that the center of my universe is gone. I forget how devastatingly sad I am, just for a minute or two.

The initial shock from the first couple days after we lost her has worn, but in its place, my sadness has grown. The first few weeks after death were intense and overwhelming. I thought it was the worst I would ever feel. But really, the worst is trying to figure out how to live without her as the days turn into months. And it won’t stop. In 20 years I will still be learning to live without her, but my memories will be more distant.

My mom was was soul mate. She was my best friend. Trying to live without her is truly unbearable. It’s as if someone has taken out my batteries but keeps expecting me to turn on and function like always.


My mom brought our dog, Lola, home six months after my dad died. Our family was devastated and my mother, always the caregiver, was trying to comfort my brother who had withdrawn a lot and had long been asking for a dog. As a confirmed cat person, I was resistant. Also 8 week old puppies are kind of nightmares.

Lola took her time learning to poop outside, she made it clear she preferred the living room carpet. She tried to “playfully” maul every person who entered our house and chewed as many of our belongings as she could get her paws on. She crowded our personal space during supper time, drooling on your leg until you gave up the last few bites. But above all of her mischief, she brought an incredible amount of love and joy to our family at a time we needed it most. And she kept doing it for 11 years.

We said goodbye to Lola last week after a short but aggressive illness. Her head rested in my lap while my siblings and I sat around her on the floor of the vet’s office. It was time, she was hurting.

Sometimes life is unnecessarily cruel. Losing our dog five months after my mom died feels very much like The Universe sending my siblings and I a big “Fuck You” just to remind us that we are not in control.

But as I try to cope, I think about what my mother might say if she was here. She would shake her head and say “oh Megan.” Then she would remind me that I am made up of my experiences, both good and bad. She would say that the low points in my life, though sometimes harsh and unfair, have shaped me into a stronger version of myself. She would remind me that people who manage to move through life with relative ease miss out on understanding the full depth of the human experience.

Most of all, in challenging times, my mother would tell me that things will get better. She never had any evidence to back that claim up, but she said it with such confidence that I couldn’t help but believe her. But even though she isn’t here to tell me everything will be okay eventually, I can still close my eyes and hear her voice saying it with such conviction that I know it must be true.


Two Months

My mother died yesterday. But, it wasn’t actually yesterday, it was two months ago. But it feels like yesterday.

Living through two months without my mother has been excruciating. The world is upside down and backward and nothing about the passage of time makes sense anymore. How can two months have passed already? It was just a day ago when our house was filled with police officers and paramedics and grief counselors. It was just a day ago when I woke up slowly and wandered upstairs to make coffee and say good morning to my mother, only to find her unresponsive. It was just a day ago when I frantically called 911 and sobbed on the phone as the woman on the line coached me through CPR and calmly assured an ambulance was on its way. It was just yesterday that a paramedic confirmed my worst fear to be true. But, it wasn’t actually yesterday.

I desperately hoped my mother would grow into a little old lady. Forgetful, frail, weathered, and wrinkled is how I expected her to be in her final months. I expected to be taking care of her. To do her laundry, keep her stocked up on adult diapers, drive her to doctors appointments, and coax her out for walks around the block. I expected the shift in caregiver roles to be gradual, so much so that we never really recognized it happening. I expected my mother’s funeral to be small, she was supposed to outlive most of her friends and family. I expected to have a lot more time.

Instead, in her sixty-first year, my mother was suddenly gone and I am now presented with the unimaginable task of learning to live without her.

Career Anxiety

Can I succeed in media with depression and anxiety? I’ve asked myself that over and over for a few years. I made becoming a journalist my goal when I was in high school, mostly because there was pressure to choose a thing. Pressure to know, at 14, what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, and it was ingrained in me that the most important thing about my life would be my career. So I picked journalism because I know anything involving science and math was out of the question and Rory Gilmore was a journalist and she was smart and respectable, so thus began my career aspirations.

I made that my goal before I knew anything about the industry or my own mental health. I didn’t know that the sadness I felt would still be with me more than a decade later. I didn’t know that when I went to university, anxiety would be such a big part of my life. I didn’t know what anxiety was. So I chose I competitive career field that is centred around deadlines and talking to strangers before I was aware of how my brain functioned.

I’ve had two full-time jobs as an editor. I left both after less than a year in a chaotic mess of stress and sadness. There were factors other than my mental health that led to leaving those jobs. I’m still not sure if those jobs made my depression worse or if my depression made those jobs more difficult. But I do know that it’s probably time to reevaluate my career aspirations.

Journalism still excites me. I still look at work others do in media and get envious that I’m not working for a daily paper in Toronto or freelancing successfully (or at all). But I’m also very cautious. When I look at job postings in journalism or communications or PR, I immediately think about if I could handle it, or if it would be another trainwreck that further deteriorated my well-being. Before I even start writing a cover letter I’ve already spiralled into worries about how I would keep up with the work, how will I fit it, will it work out or be another career trainwreck that pulls me deeper into my depression?

These worries are a product of my anxiety and I know they are not doing me any favours. I also know that most career paths would evoke these same worries, none of it is exclusive to the world of journalism. Every job in the world has moments of stress and shitty coworkers, and my imposter syndrome will follow wherever I go.

So what do I do? Keep trying to make it in an industry that will always feed my anxiety or take a totally different risk and start over with something new? I have no idea and I rarely listen to the advice that’s given to me, so asking the universe isn’t helpful either.

For now, I will continue to curse the public school system that insisted 15-year-old Megan make a choice she was in no way ready to make.

Hurry Up

I'm in a big hurry. I'm currently living at my mom's, not working, and killing time with TV and overthinking all of the life events and decisions that led me to this point. I'm here because I needed some time to focus on managing my ongoing depression (etc.), which has really taken a back seat on my priorities list until now. So here I am without the pressure of paying rent or showing up to work every day, and instead of practising meditation or reading or writing just because I feel like it, I'm obsessing over finding a job or going to grad school or selling non-essential organs to afford another apartment that will become a financial burden. 

For the entire six months that I was at my previous job, I was overwhelmed by pretty much everything. It was such a relief to wake up the day after I was done working there for good and not have to think about making a newspaper. Not because I didn't like my job, I loved my job. But my mood has been dipping to new lows for years without any real treatment.

I worked hard to cope while in University with regular counselling, exercising, mindfulness, and a lot of self-reflection. Post-grad life really kicked my ass and I let my self-care lapse. So two years later when I was starting a new job that I was really excited about, my depression had completely taken over my brain and succeeding in that environment was no longer a possibility. 

So this is the time to take care of myself, but all I want to do each day is hurry the fuck up and get on with my life. I want to ignore medical advice and jump headfirst into a job that I'm not ready for so that I can further destroy myself until there is nothing left to care for. Sounds like a terrible plan, right? Patience is a virtue I have ever possessed. 

The Sandwich

I hardly ever stay in Kitchener on the weekends. I had a rare social engagement in town last Saturday, which caused me to skip my usual weekend trip to St Catharines, where my mom and sister and dog live. 

Knowing I’d be at my own apartment on a Saturday for the first time in a while, I emotionally wrapped my head around how the morning alone would go. I’d get up, go to the market to grab donuts and produce, then head to the Yeti for coffee and a breakfast sandwich to go and spend a few hours on my couch. It was going to be wonderful.

I built my Saturday morning plans up in my head all week. I told other humans about how I would get this specific sandwich that morning. It was what motivated me to get up and get dressed before noon that day. My entire day was based around eating this sandwich on my couch, while watching TV and drinking coffee and having a mostly perfect Saturday.

I wandered through the Kitchener Market, buying peaches and donuts before I became overwhelmed by the crowds and had to get the fuck out of there. Then I was at the Yeti, ordering my perfect breakfast to-go, standing awkwardly out front holding a toy lizard, waiting for said breakfast to be ready and drinking from my too-hot cup of coffee, trying very hard to look normal.

The hot guy who works there brought me the sandwich, I gave him the lizard and started my 30 second walk home. By this point, you probably guess what happened. While opening the door, holding too many things, I dropped the sandwich. It fell on my dusty front porch, each element coming to rest scattered across the ground. I was calm while I picked up egg and tomatoes, wiping aioli off of my welcome mat. But the calm didn’t last long.

I went inside, set down my coffee, donuts, and peaches and contemplated what had just occurred. Then came the tears. I cry a lot, pretty much everyday, but this was different. The loss of the sandwich, after all of that build up, unleashed a stream of upset about so many things I had buried away. So I was left, on what was supposed to be my perfect Saturday morning, sobbing on my couch, hungry, with my cats staring in judgement.

I wasn’t crying about the sandwich, I was crying about what the sandwich represented.

One Part Vodka, Two Parts Sadness

The topic of millennials giving up drinking while their peers are still throwing back pitchers and vodka sodas on weeknights has become pretty common. People in their 20s are coming to terms with the fact that what was once a social lubricant has now become a crippling addiction. Men in their 30s are losing their expanding bellies and becoming distance runners after having the epiphany that booze was running their life. Rock bottom for some is less about getting arrested or losing their home and more about counting down the minutes until 5pm when you can be sitting on a patio, taking in your first beer of seven or eight that night.

My own relationship with alcohol has held a decent sized space in the front of my brain for the last few years. In the winter of 2014, I started a bad habit of drinking a bottle of red wine alone in my bedroom after my roommates had turned in for the night. The empty bottles filled the best hiding spots of my room, shameful relics of a rapidly increasing routine. Until then, alcohol had been part of my life very casually. I drank whenever my friends and I went out on a Friday night, occasionally ordered a beer when I was out for dinner with my mom, over-did it a few times when I was trying to keep up with my sister and her friends in a desperate attempt to be accepted. But it all felt normal. I rarely drank on weeknights, almost never both nights on a weekend. I relied on alcohol in the way that is socially acceptable: to calm my social anxiety and lower my inhibitions so I could freely flirt with boys at parties or in bar booths. I remember the first time someone told me that I was so much more fun when I was drunk. I was 19 and I took it to heart for the rest of my student life.

But, by my final year of university, I crossed the socially acceptable line. The aforementioned wine bottles collected. One drink was never enough. I can’t remember the last time I had just one drink. It’s always five or six at least. Drinking stopped being something that I wanted to do and became something I needed to do. I needed it to sleep at night. I needed it to get through what was, at the time, the height of my depression. I needed it to calm down and deal with each day. I needed it to turn my brain off, even if just for a few hours, so I could keep living my life.

Now at 25, I’m seeing an addictions counsellor, going to group therapy for substance abusers who want to quit, but aren’t quite ready, and promising my doctor every few weeks that I’ll give up the drug that is pulling me deeper into depression. It’s not what I thought my life would be at this point.

If I didn’t have clinical depression, I might be okay with my alcohol intake. I also probably would drink a lot less though. Alcohol itself is a depressant, so it’s a no-brainer that it makes depression worse. It prevents my medication from doing its job. It brings my mood down even more. It keeps me down, long after the fuzzy feeling of intoxication is gone. And yet, I turn to it when I’m sad, when I want to not feel for a little while. When I need a break from life. It’s pretty ironic, in the real way, not the Alanis Morissette way.

Knowing all of this, I still can’t seem to stop just yet. There’s always a reason. A party coming up, holidays, birthdays, long weekends, patio season! How can I exist in the stifling hot summer without a beer on a patio? It’s the conversation I have with myself every day. Bargaining is what the social workers call it. But a wise friend once told me: It’s always going to be patio season.

Handle with Care

In university I had a ceramic travel mug. One morning I set down on the cement floor of a lecture hall. It cracked in half. From being set on the ground. If I picked it up, it would have crumpled, spilling coffee everywhere. So instead, I left it there for someone else to find and deal with.

I am very sensitive. You can take an internet test to find out if you’re a highly sensitive person. And then you can write an article for the Huffington Post about it. And then share that all over Facebook and twitter so that all of your internet friends know how sensitive you are. I didn’t do that, because someone else pitched the HuffPost article first and no way am I piggybacking sympathy off that.

I go back and forth between describing myself as sensitive and fragile. I think fragile might be more accurate, but also less flattering somehow; like a shitty travel mug that cracks if you use the most mild of force when placing it on a hard surface.

Working Girl

About 9 months ago, I decided I needed to take some time off from my life. Since I can remember, I’ve been dead-set on being successful in the eyes of my peers. The days of invisibility and self-described mediocrity of high school pushed me to want to make something of myself. I wanted to somehow get to a place where my former classmates and teachers might realize they underestimated me. Looking back now, as a wise and deeply experienced 25 year old, it all sounds so silly.

That drive and desire to stick it to my teenage peers led me to work really hard and zero in on a goal. Of course, as any romcom will teach you, the closer I got to that goal, the less I wanted it. I found myself “successful” on paper and realizing that that was not real success after all. Saying goodbye to the job that supposedly made me successful was the best decision I’ve made in years.

I let my goals define me for a very long time. I was Megan, the aspiring journalist; and then Megan, the actual journalist; and once I moved on from that, I didn’t know how to define myself anymore. I’ve dreaded running into acquaintances from my former life — the question of “what are you up to” haunts me daily.

Work has always been what I excelled at. My personal life is riddled with depression and a resting bitch face. School constantly overwhelmed me and I never felt that my grades reflected my effort. My family is stable compared to some, but often tumultuous in my mind. I’ve always struggled to hold onto friends and have had limited success with dating. But work was always good. From my first shitty high school job with a regularly drunk boss to my volunteer positions at the student newspaper, which I always (to a fault) treated as an actual job, I’ve always been good at working. So good, that I let it define who I am.

But now I’m a 25 year old university graduate working two part-time customer service jobs. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s the path of many millennials. But I’m not happy in my work life, I’m not driven or passionate about what I’m doing. I fucking hate people, so customer service is really not my jam. So I don’t feel like I can let my work define me anymore. But I’m not sure how to replace it yet. In the meantime, I’m defining myself as cynic, a cat mom, and a sad person. I don’t think I can sustain all of those very far into 2017.



There’s a hole in the basement ceiling of my mother’s house. It’s a slightly distorted rectangle that reveals the dusty rafters usually masked by drywall. The hole has been there so long, it’s now just part of the room. I hardly notice it.

In the spring of 2012, one of the two family cats — Blizzard, aptly named for her white fur — wasn’t doing too well. The previous year, she’d had a very expensive hysterectomy to remove her tiny cat uterus, which was somehow causing her despair. The vet at the time was pretty clear that most people would just put their cat down, but my mother and I were not willing to give up on the little fur ball and opted to spread the $2,000 procedure over several credit cards.

But in 2012, she made it clear that her tiny body had had enough and she was about to peace out. She was extra sleepy and had stopped caring about her appearance. One day, we didn’t see her for hours. We looked in every hiding spot we could think of, while my mother along with our other cat, Panda, paced.

Eventually we found her. Tucked away in the ceiling rafters of the basement, accessible by the unfinished laundry room. There she stayed until someone with a saw could come over to retrieve her. That’s how we got the hole in the ceiling, from cutting out our dead cat who chose the most inconvenient place for her final resting spot. It was very on brand for her.

I feel like there’s a metaphor somewhere in the dead cat/hole in ceiling story. I tell it a lot. Something about how we choose to ignore reminders of pain? Or ignoring imperfections that might be obvious to everyone else? Who knows. Maybe the hole means nothing. Maybe it just means our cat was a fucking asshole who wanted a physical hole to represent the metaphorical one she was leaving in our family. Typical.


Father's Day in November

With every fathers’ day comes a litter of personal essays across the internet about the complications of the father-child relationship. Either he was absent from the beginning, left when you were a kid — or worse, an angsty teen who was old enough to actually be privy to his wrongdoings. Maybe he’s in prison or living in California with his new family. Maybe your parents are married but unhappy and you’ve become accustom to his drinking and emotional abuse. He’s there, but not really. Or he could be dead — that’s my father issue. I can’t be cliché enough to write about my dad on father’s day, but this year is the 10th anniversary of his death, and I just can’t let that pass by without acknowledgement.   

On November 13, 2006, David Nourse’s heart failed, my mom became a widow and single parent, and I became one of the many people with a shitty dad story. Now there are a few significant days every year where I spend the day thinking about my Dad — the ways he was great and the ways he sucked — and debating whether or not to mention it out loud. What a first-world death problem.  

I loved my dad, he was far from perfect (but so are all humans). He drank too much and smoked too much and yelled too much. But he was funny and charismatic, he could make friends with anyone. He could build me a bookshelf and put Ikea furniture together and never lose the allen keys. But he and my mom fought a lot, he was too hard on my brother, and he didn’t seem to ever be concerned about his health even though he had his first heart attack at 29. But the worst part about my dad was that he died before I really got to know him.

My mother and I have always been close (except for a few years when I went through puberty — I wouldn’t have liked me either). But we really became close when I started getting older, when I started growing up and becoming an adult human who could understand experiences outside of my own. Now my mother is the most important person in my life. She is my rock, my biggest fan and number one VIP. That all came after my dad died. I know my mother as an independent adult human, not just as my mother. I only ever knew my dad as my dad.

Though it hasn’t felt like 10 years since I was 15 and going through the pain of losing a parent, a lot has changed. I feel unrecognizable to the person I was then, so do most of the people I love who were there. My sister and I have grown closer, my brother and I farther apart than I ever imagined possible. My mom continues to be the strongest person I know. In the last decade, she has provided me with the most inspiring example of love, courage, and independent womanhood. 

Though I’m not entirely sure who I’ve become, I know I am a total stranger to my father. 

Just Do It

Just write a book. Just apply to grad school. Just update your blog. Just start a podcast. Just write everyday. Just do your dishes. Just go to bed and wake up a regular hours. Just make food at home instead of eating out. Just save money. Just dress weather-appropriate. Just make things. Just tweet enough sassy remarks that someone gives you a book deal. 

Everything sounds so easy when you start the sentence with "just." But somehow, no matter how I say it, doing the dishes and wearing a coat when it's cold outside feels impossible some days. So the idea that I can "just" write a book or go back to journalism or not cry in the shower most mornings seems unbelievably daunting. I will never stop crying in the shower, it's my crying place. 

I manage to come up with a lot of excuses for why I don't do things. But in the same breath I complain that I'm unhappy with where my life is. I'm unhappy in my jobs, I'm unhappy that I'm not blogging regularly, I'm disappointed in myself for not writing everyday and for watching TV instead of reading. I'm disappointed that I'm not a journalist and I worry that I've unknowingly given up on my dream. 

I've left Yale and am working for the DAR to distract myself from the fact that Mitchum Huntzberger doesn't think I have what it takes to be a journalist. But it's been a few months and I think I might almost be ready for Jess to waltz back into my life and tell me to get my shit together. 

Deep Trouble

Days start off slow. I wake up, groggy from the sedative antipsychotic medication I took before bed. Each morning is a struggle to convince myself that I can do that day. That I can get up, get dressed, make coffee and at least try to tackle whatever is on my to-do list. I cautiously move through, hoping that there are no speedbumps, hoping things go as I expect them to and I don’t forget where I’m supposed to be, or lose my keys or have a meltdown over making breakfast or disappoint anyone.  This hasn’t always been my life, and not everyday is this way. But most are.  

At the beginning of the summer, I quite a terrible job that was killing me and vowed to take the advice of my doctor and mother and take some time off. Limited by funds of course, I knew time away from work was what I needed to get better. But after a few weeks, I got restless and worried that I wasn’t living up to some imaginary expectation I thought people had of me. So I started trying to be busy again. I took on too much, made promises I couldn’t keep. Got one job and then another. Now here I am, no better off than I was five months ago.

I’ve been here before. Overloaded with commitments, unable to take care of myself mentally. Allowing people to expect things of me that I know I can’t deliver. Being completely reckless and irresponsible when it comes to my mental health. It becomes increasingly more difficult to get out of this space every time I end up here. The meltdowns are more frequent, the cuts deeper, the walls thicker. It’s enough to write an entire emo album.

Ch Ch Changes

I was ambitious. I’ve wanted to be a journalist since middle school. My early dreams being inspired by Rory Gilmore doesn’t make them any less valid.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like most people around me expected little of me. I believed that my teachers and peers thought I was a very average person who would do very average things in her life. I’ve wanted to prove everyone wrong for a long time.

In high school, I embraced the classic teen angst and thought I was misunderstood. In university, I was working really hard and for the first time, people noticed. Journalism felt attainable, success felt attainable, happiness wasn’t unreachable. My ambitions were leading me somewhere.

Fast forward to age 25 (I know, I know, I’m young and my life will change and I’m basically a tiny child) and things stopped going the way I’d hoped they would. I had to quit my first major journalism job and I’m now a month into working part time at a movie theatre and a brewery.

Since I got my first job at 15, I’ve basically never stopped working towards some kind of goal. So when a few people suggested it is okay to be a little easier on myself and focus less on a career job, I tried really hard to embrace that. I left my first day at my new minimum wage job feeling weird and covered in melted butter. Weird because I spent the night learning the basics of a job I could have done at 18. I left wondering what the last five years have been about if this was where I was going to end up. There’s nothing wrong with the job, just like there is maybe nothing wrong with getting a diploma or a degree and never putting it to literal use. But I’ve been needing almost daily pep talks to feel like where I’m at is okay.

“Oh, so it’s like a placeholder job till something better comes” and “you want to give up EI for that?” are less positive reactions I’ve gotten when telling people about my new direction. Of course, I’ve also been told to ignore that bullshit and do what will make me happier. Somehow it’s way easier to listen to the negativity.

Is a part time job at a movie theatre worse that sitting on my couch wallowing every night? Cause that’s what I’ve been doing. Wallowing, drinking, watching too much TV and wishing things were different without actually putting in the effort to make it different. But I guess as long as I was doing all of that in private, to some people it is the better option.





Love in the Time of Text-Based Communication

Most of my personality is in my tone. It's also in my inability to hold back snarky comments in social settings. That does not come off on paper (or on a cell phone screen). This has proven to be a roadblock in 21st dating and friend making. 

In real life (IRL if you're an internet person) I mostly make friends over alcohol and through common friends who have openly endorsed me to their circle of friends. The internet is not conducive to any of that. 

Internet dating and friend making involves a true commitment to small talk that I can't get on board with. It blows my mind when dudes message me on Tinder with just "Hey." What am I supposed to do with that!? There's no witty comeback to "hey!" There's no common friend there to buffer the awkwardness and fill in the conversation gaps. It's just me and a random guy that has a beard in his photo and is hopefully not trying to catfish me. 

After some dbag (Dave) send me a super anti-feminist rant on Tinder, I swore it off. But it turns out I'm addicted to the swiping so I needed to download another app. I went with Bumble for my second try. It's supposedly feminist leaning because users who identify as female have to talk first. I'm not entirely sure how that works for same-sex seekers. Anyway, the anxiety of having to make first contact does not affirm my feminism, it just makes me want to put my phone in the garbage and give up on all romantic pursuits. 

Basically my independent womanhood does not translate on the Internet so I'm going to be single until I have some sort of rom com meet cute at a taco Tuesday. 


Nice is not a word often (or ever) used to describe me. I think that when my friends say things like that to me, it's some sort of backhanded compliment. When I say it about myself, it's a proud statement about the snarky personality traits I was born with and have chosen to really embrace in my 20s. 

My mother has told stories of my constant scowl as a baby. I have a vivid memory of getting in trouble in grade 3 for calling a classmate stupid (his name was Josh and he deserved it). Puberty obviously helped nothing. Even actual nice girls can't make it through ages 11-14 without succumbing to their hormones and falling through the trap of cyberbullying, gossip and cafeteria social wars.

High school was the first time I remember people directly saying I was mean. They were usually my friends and it was usually over jokes made at their expense that I told to get a laugh from the rest of the group (which always worked). Turns out people like laughing at the expense of others and I was fucking addicted to that laughter. No wonder I don't have any high school friends left. But I think it was worth it. 

I've been very aware that I'm not that nice for a long time. Also very sensitive about it. Now that I'm not a teenager and I can actually choose my friends based on compatibility and not necessity, most of the people I'm around seem to like my snarky attitude. Or at least they like it until they don't.

I dated a guy who always talked about how hilarious my "sass" was, but then six months in he started regularly complaining that I was too mean to him (those comments definitely did not make me any nicer). I have friends who laugh at most of what I say and seem to enjoy my personal brand until one day they drop "mean" into the conversation and I feel like I'm losing them. I encounter people often who are very much not on board with my personality; though to be fair, I feel that way when I meet super positive people. 

I choose to say what I say, I choose to roll my eyes (though sometimes it feels involuntary), and I choose to be a bit of an asshole in social situations because research has proven that at least one person will think I'm funny. 

"Nice" means different things to different people, so does "mean." Obsessing over whether or not people think I'm mean has proven to be a waste of time. We should all just take a page from Sheryl Sandberg and lean in to our snarky personalities and resting bitch faces (that's what she was talking about, right?). 

Too many T Swift GIFs were applicable. 

Too many T Swift GIFs were applicable. 




The Hype

There are approximately a million articles about the Gilmore Girls revival currently collecting hits on the internet. Most of what I have read spews the obvious details we already know, speculation over which boyfriend Rory ends up with (hopefully she’s met someone better in the last decade), debating the drama over whether Melissa McCarthy was actually invited back and compiling photos from the cast’s Instagram accounts. It’s all garbage.

What we really need to talk about is how to emotionally prepare ourselves for the real possibility that it will all be a huge fucking letdown. With Amy Sherman-Palladino back at the wheel, I really doubt it will be anything less than spectacular, but I was a Girl Guide for 10 years, so being prepared is my motto.

Gilmore Girls ended tragically without ASP. She was the only one who really got it, so when she left the show, it was basically over. Season 6 starts with the infamous Rory/Lorelai fight that lasts 10 fucking episodes and as soon as it’s over Luke’s surprise daughter shows up and never leaves. It’s all too painful to revisit, so really, I prefer to think of the show’s end somewhere in season 5, before the Huntzbergers destroy Rory emotionally over dinner.

Revival disappointment is just like life disappointment. There’s so much hype, you get excited and make plans, tweet about it, mark it on your calendar, whatever. And then it comes and goes and it was all just okay. Like every New Year’s Eve and 20-something birthday. After it’s over, even if it was good, it never lives up to the idea in your head of how it would all play out.

Therefore, the Gilmore revival is bound to disappoint us, but that’s no reason to not watch it. I’ll still make bullshit New Year’s Eve plans and get too excited and buy new lipstick just to get too drunk and wish I had stayed on my couch instead.

Sell Out

The last few months have been an up and down cycle of applying for jobs and extended couch time during which I panic about where I went wrong in my early 20s. Also spending equal time fighting and leaning in to my dramatic tendencies. 

Today, I'm ending a 3-day streak of couch time and applying for jobs. 3 cover letters in and my soul feels a little sprained from trying to sell myself to strangers. Why am I awesome? What are my skills? Why should you hire me even though I have no serving experience? Do you know the answers to any of those? I certainly don't. I mean, I know why I think I'm awesome, but I don't think "snarky demeanour" is what any employer is looking for. 

Trying to convince someone I have positive attitude and good work ethic is basically impossible on paper. If only cover letters were nonexistent and interviews took place in bars.