screw diets. every great weekend should be as full of great food as this last one was.
friday night, m & i went to norman's for their miami spice menu. we couldn't afford to go here on any other night as it is easily the best (and most expensive) restaurant this city has to offer. it's the first place i ask to go to when my birthday rolls around. our last visit there was in april with both sets of parents. i sat there for 2 hours, speechless, almost in tears as i savoured every delicious bite. that night i had cracked conch chowder with toasted coconut and saffron, a delicately spiced barramundi dish inspired by asian flavours, and the vanilla bean creme brulee. i still fantasize about it.
on friday, we were given options from a less luxurious, but still astounding menu. i had fresh ceviche to start and chicken breast with mashed sweet potatoes and blue tortilla as my main dish. m had a crisp black bean crabcake and shallot-stuffed salmon on a bed of pearl onions and leeks. we both finished, sated, with the creme brulee and a snappy espresso. divine.
on saturday, i had every intention of cooking until mathieu stated he was craving a big steak. i quickly researched and found that there is a new restaurant in the design district called gigi. it is located in the very location of one of our old haunts, 190. 190 had the best steak frites i have ever had. a beautifully cooked steak with a veritable mountain of crisp fries embellished by fresh rosemary and thyme. gigi was definitely more upscale than 190- less casual- but the service at both incarnations was impeccable. we split a bottle of shiraz & tucked into nicoise salads & great plates of steak frites. very simple, no frills, but exquisite nevertheless.
tonight, i decided that a third night out would certainly be gluttonous. i simply prepared a feast at home. chicken with dijon mustard, garlic, oregano, rosemary, and olive oil. and my famous roast potatoes.
i'm getting DAMN good at this.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
i wrote this... a year ago..
I had survived another day of mindless corporate coffee hell and dragged my tired feet back to my car, exuding the stale smell of spilt coffee and burnt milk. Limp and damp as a dishcloth, I opened the door to my Beetle and felt my cheeks sting with the tears I had held back all afternoon. My co-workers had triumphantly succeeded once again in chastising me to the point of exhaustion and I was longing for the simple solace of my bed. As if on cue, rain began to pound rhythmically on my roof as I placed my key into the ignition. It would certainly be a longer ride home than usual.
My soundtrack for the day had been chosen when I was still in fine spirits- Radiohead’s fourth album, “Kid A.” I had picked it up haphazardly after not hearing it for a few years. In all honesty, it had not impressed me much at first. Its stuttering electronic beats sounded too epileptic for my austere tastes. I had dismissed electronic music as being hollow and banal, the type of music approached by people who could not play instruments. It wasn’t music, but orchestrated noise fit for monkeys and mindless glow stick twirling rave kids tripping on their elephant leg pants and bouncing along with cartoon grins fueled by designer drugs and electric blue Pop Rocks. When my favorite band, which includes a mad scientist guitar virtuoso and a lead singer with a eunuch’s graceful falsetto, released an album heavily reliant on computer blips and beeps, I was shocked and dismayed. I watched legions of indie kids, decked out in identical black-framed glasses and Diesel jeans, twitch in unison to the dance floor-friendly single “Idioteque”- and was completely unmoved. After the success of “Ok Computer,” I had thought Radiohead was the second coming of rock and roll and maybe, just maybe, the promise that British bands from the early nineties like My Bloody Valentine, Curve, and Suede (driven by dark, melancholic lyrics and a sound based on heavily distorted layers of guitar droning) would finally be realized. A departure from traditional instruments seemed like sacrilege- and Radiohead was excommunicated from my list of the holiest of holies, if only for a fleeting moment.
So there I sat, sullen and sore, in my car, desperate for sleep. As I began to navigate the familiar streets of my neighborhood, something came over me. As the beginning bars of the first track began, sound slowly moved up the sides of my interior. The soft keyboard line that rises and falls almost childishly lulled me to comfort. It pulsed within my veins in rhythm that followed the almost hidden staccato bass line, making my vision blur and fingertips sear with an unseen heat as if placed above a candle. The first unintelligible vocalizations sound distinctly like rolling, garbled, alien communication, but I became hypnotized by their solemn repetition. Thom Yorke was far off in a remote universe, his voice distorted by the stars that separated us, but he was singing an intergalactic embrace solely for me. Waves of gargling distortion flowed from my pitiful speakers and I felt as if I was suddenly submerged within the deep, dark sea, protected only by my Beetle-bubble and the music within. I became distinctly aware of the sensation that I was being completely encased and commanded by the very music that had left me cold and unmoved previously. I felt a series of shivers ascend my spine and rest squarely on my knotted shoulders. The flat stones that had weighed my body all day slowly started to melt into a delicious pool, like pastel pretty pistachio ice cream on hot summer concrete. Thom Yorke softly chanted, “Everything…. Everything… Everything… in its right place” into my ears, and everything, indeed, began to spiral in on itself, enveloping me in a downy pocket of sound.
Immediately, I was transported back six months in time, when Radiohead had visited South Florida and graced the Sound Advice Amphitheater with their colossal reverberating breed of British rock. I had ventured to West Palm Beach with my boyfriend, Mathieu, and friend, Sean. We had listened to all four Radiohead albums on rotation as we anxiously raced to the venue, musing about whether or not Thom Yorke could hit those high notes live and if Johnny Greenwood would have his Michael Jackson-esque arm brace dutifully strapped on as he swayed to the music with his hair dangling dramatically over his gaunt face.
We arrived early to claim seats at the very front of the discounted lawn section and watched as swarms of fans meandered about before the concert began. It seemed bizarre, to see people getting smashed on overpriced beers and grazing thoughtlessly on hot dogs and soggy nachos, as we repeatedly glanced at our watches, waiting, terrified of moving a single inch in case the band started without us. By the time the band appeared onstage, we were partially deaf from the screams of the shirtless frat-boy types that sat behind us singing “Creep” for half an hour straight and spilling their Bud Light on my blanket. As the lights dimmed, Mathieu grasped my hand tightly and the excitement rose within my body like a bubble to the surface of water, anxious, effervescent, wide-eyed in wonder. The opening ticking-metronome rhythm of “2 + 2= 5” came in slowly…
Are you such a dreamer to put the world to right?
I’ll stay home forever where two and two always makes a five…
… It’s the devils way now. There is no way out.
You can scream and shout but it’s too late now
Because
You have not been paying attention
In one explosive moment, every nerve in my brain was called to attention, as if some unseen electrical force had taken control of my body and jolted my eyelids wide open. As the drums kicked in with full raging force, I felt myself involuntarily jump high into the air, my fists high, screaming, and ready for the revolution. Thom Yorke stood miles away from us, but I could see his wiry form on the screens directly above our heads. The combination of his slim- fitting black shirt, jeans, and leather wrist cuffs made me think of a British exoskeleton. He tried to seem so rock solid on the outside, but his voice sounded like a wounded animal stranded in a forest, alone, desperate for help. It belied his manic façade. He twitched and shook, as if being possessed by a foreign spirit, and became a marionette moved by the music that was within him. Colin Greenwood, bassist, has always stood out to me, largely because of his degree in English Lit. He stood close to the drummer, Phil Selway, and grinned like a schoolboy who has just received his pocket money for sweets. Johnny Greenwood was hunched over, flailing about like a wind-tossed leaf and made his waif-like delicacy seem much more disparate when paired with his aggressive, bravado guitar playing. It struck me that the men before me truly loved what they did- and that I loved them for it.
I realized that people equally moved and inspired by Radiohead surrounded me. Indeed, as the spectacle progressed, I noticed that, unlike every other concert I have attended before and since, audience members didn’t really talk between songs. There was a noticeable lack of people milling around aimlessly, talking on cell phones in tones of badly concealed boredom. We represent the “me” generation, fixated on technology, unmoved by everything, no matter how extreme. Passion-less, we are self-involved and effete. Nevertheless, everyone around me seemed enthralled, consumed by the music each of us had ostensibly heard time and time again thanks to our respectively hip CD collections. That night, the music was new to us once more.
Time appeared to evaporate as I stood, my feet firmly planted on the damp grass while I watched the quintet of proper Oxford graduates dance onstage and thrill the crowd with expertly crafted song after song. In what seemed to be mere minutes, the band marched offstage to a roar of applause as we begged for more, supplicating ourselves before our musical gods. They reappeared to end with “Everything In It’s Right Place.” What struck me most about this encore was it’s finale… a seemingly endless loop of electronic noise that played on after the band left with the message “Forever” scrolling across the lit screens as the audience watched, baffled and overwhelmed.
The crowd languidly filed towards the parking lot. The sense that we had shared in a massive, universal, communal orgasm permeated through the blissful smiles and wide eyes accented by dilated pupils. We were all, indeed, drugged by the intensity of Radiohead’s flawless performance. As my companions and I stumbled to my car, a severe throbbing in my skull commenced as I tried to make sense of the wonder I had experienced. Back in the comfort of my car, the pain persisted and I lost track of everything outside of myself as my boyfriend drove us home.
Six months later, I’m in my car again, listening to “Kid A,” and remembering that mantra of “Forever” from the concert that changed my life. I sat with my forehead against the steering wheel, on the side of the road, eyes clamped shut, and listened. The repetition of “Everything In Its Right Place” soothed me. In that moment, I understood that, though my circumstances may be far less than ideal, that everything, indeed, was in its right place. I was disheartened and uninspired, but knew that such emotional desolation could only be the groundwork for growth. I had been subjected to a moment of synchronicity thanks to the electronic music I had dismissed as being superficial and irrelevant.
Why be so dismissive of electronic music, I realized? It is certainly the future of what musicians do and how they will be able to share their gifts with anxiously awaiting fans, like myself. It doesn’t have to be the empty noise you hear pouring from shops at the mall and trailing down suburban streets. If electronic music is attacked and conquered by skillful traditionally trained musicians, like Radiohead, it can become the soundtrack of your life.
It has become an integral part of the soundtrack to mine…
My soundtrack for the day had been chosen when I was still in fine spirits- Radiohead’s fourth album, “Kid A.” I had picked it up haphazardly after not hearing it for a few years. In all honesty, it had not impressed me much at first. Its stuttering electronic beats sounded too epileptic for my austere tastes. I had dismissed electronic music as being hollow and banal, the type of music approached by people who could not play instruments. It wasn’t music, but orchestrated noise fit for monkeys and mindless glow stick twirling rave kids tripping on their elephant leg pants and bouncing along with cartoon grins fueled by designer drugs and electric blue Pop Rocks. When my favorite band, which includes a mad scientist guitar virtuoso and a lead singer with a eunuch’s graceful falsetto, released an album heavily reliant on computer blips and beeps, I was shocked and dismayed. I watched legions of indie kids, decked out in identical black-framed glasses and Diesel jeans, twitch in unison to the dance floor-friendly single “Idioteque”- and was completely unmoved. After the success of “Ok Computer,” I had thought Radiohead was the second coming of rock and roll and maybe, just maybe, the promise that British bands from the early nineties like My Bloody Valentine, Curve, and Suede (driven by dark, melancholic lyrics and a sound based on heavily distorted layers of guitar droning) would finally be realized. A departure from traditional instruments seemed like sacrilege- and Radiohead was excommunicated from my list of the holiest of holies, if only for a fleeting moment.
So there I sat, sullen and sore, in my car, desperate for sleep. As I began to navigate the familiar streets of my neighborhood, something came over me. As the beginning bars of the first track began, sound slowly moved up the sides of my interior. The soft keyboard line that rises and falls almost childishly lulled me to comfort. It pulsed within my veins in rhythm that followed the almost hidden staccato bass line, making my vision blur and fingertips sear with an unseen heat as if placed above a candle. The first unintelligible vocalizations sound distinctly like rolling, garbled, alien communication, but I became hypnotized by their solemn repetition. Thom Yorke was far off in a remote universe, his voice distorted by the stars that separated us, but he was singing an intergalactic embrace solely for me. Waves of gargling distortion flowed from my pitiful speakers and I felt as if I was suddenly submerged within the deep, dark sea, protected only by my Beetle-bubble and the music within. I became distinctly aware of the sensation that I was being completely encased and commanded by the very music that had left me cold and unmoved previously. I felt a series of shivers ascend my spine and rest squarely on my knotted shoulders. The flat stones that had weighed my body all day slowly started to melt into a delicious pool, like pastel pretty pistachio ice cream on hot summer concrete. Thom Yorke softly chanted, “Everything…. Everything… Everything… in its right place” into my ears, and everything, indeed, began to spiral in on itself, enveloping me in a downy pocket of sound.
Immediately, I was transported back six months in time, when Radiohead had
We arrived early to claim seats at the very front of the discounted lawn section and watched as swarms of fans meandered about before the concert began. It seemed bizarre, to see people getting smashed on overpriced beers and grazing thoughtlessly on hot dogs and soggy nachos, as we repeatedly glanced at our watches, waiting, terrified of moving a single inch in case the band started without us. By the time the band appeared onstage, we were partially deaf from the screams of the shirtless frat-boy types that sat behind us singing “Creep” for half an hour straight and spilling their Bud Light on my blanket. As the lights dimmed, Mathieu grasped my hand tightly and the excitement rose within my body like a bubble to the surface of water, anxious, effervescent, wide-eyed in wonder. The opening ticking-metronome rhythm of “2 + 2= 5” came in slowly…
Are you such a dreamer to put the world to right?
I’ll stay home forever where two and two always makes a five…
… It’s the devils way now. There is no way out.
You can scream and shout but it’s too late now
Because
You have not been paying attention
In one explosive moment, every nerve in my brain was called to attention, as if some unseen electrical force had taken control of my body and jolted my eyelids wide open. As the drums kicked in with full raging force, I felt myself involuntarily jump high into the air, my fists high, screaming, and ready for the revolution. Thom Yorke stood miles away from us, but I could see his wiry form on the screens directly above our heads. The combination of his slim- fitting black shirt, jeans, and leather wrist cuffs made me think of a British exoskeleton. He tried to seem so rock solid on the outside, but his voice sounded like a wounded animal stranded in a forest, alone, desperate for help. It belied his manic façade. He twitched and shook, as if being possessed by a foreign spirit, and became a marionette moved by the music that was within him. Colin Greenwood, bassist, has always stood out to me, largely because of his degree in English Lit. He stood close to the drummer, Phil Selway, and grinned like a schoolboy who has just received his pocket money for sweets. Johnny Greenwood was hunched over, flailing about like a wind-tossed leaf and made his waif-like delicacy seem much more disparate when paired with his aggressive, bravado guitar playing. It struck me that the men before me truly loved what they did- and that I loved them for it.
I realized that people equally moved and inspired by Radiohead surrounded me. Indeed, as the spectacle progressed, I noticed that, unlike every other concert I have attended before and since, audience members didn’t really talk between songs. There was a noticeable lack of people milling around aimlessly, talking on cell phones in tones of badly concealed boredom. We represent the “me” generation, fixated on technology, unmoved by everything, no matter how extreme. Passion-less, we are self-involved and effete. Nevertheless, everyone around me seemed enthralled, consumed by the music each of us had ostensibly heard time and time again thanks to our respectively hip CD collections. That night, the music was new to us once more.
Time appeared to evaporate as I stood, my feet firmly planted on the damp grass while I watched the quintet of proper Oxford graduates dance onstage and thrill the crowd with expertly crafted song after song. In what seemed to be mere minutes, the band marched offstage to a roar of applause as we begged for more, supplicating ourselves before our musical gods. They reappeared to end with “Everything In It’s Right Place.” What struck me most about this encore was it’s finale… a seemingly endless loop of electronic noise that played on after the band left with the message “Forever” scrolling across the lit screens as the audience watched, baffled and overwhelmed.
The crowd languidly filed towards the parking lot. The sense that we had shared in a massive, universal, communal orgasm permeated through the blissful smiles and wide eyes accented by dilated pupils. We were all, indeed, drugged by the intensity of Radiohead’s flawless performance. As my companions and I stumbled to my car, a severe throbbing in my skull commenced as I tried to make sense of the wonder I had experienced. Back in the comfort of my car, the pain persisted and I lost track of everything outside of myself as my boyfriend drove us home.
Six months later, I’m in my car again, listening to “Kid A,” and remembering that mantra of “Forever” from the concert that changed my life. I sat with my forehead against the steering wheel, on the side of the road, eyes clamped shut, and listened. The repetition of “Everything In Its Right Place” soothed me. In that moment, I understood that, though my circumstances may be far less than ideal, that everything, indeed, was in its right place. I was disheartened and uninspired, but knew that such emotional desolation could only be the groundwork for growth. I had been subjected to a moment of synchronicity thanks to the electronic music I had dismissed as being superficial and irrelevant.
Why be so dismissive of electronic music, I realized? It is certainly the future of what musicians do and how they will be able to share their gifts with anxiously awaiting fans, like myself. It doesn’t have to be the empty noise you hear pouring from shops at the mall and trailing down suburban streets. If electronic music is attacked and conquered by skillful traditionally trained musicians, like Radiohead, it can become the soundtrack of your life.
It has become an integral part of the soundtrack to mine…
Monday, September 12, 2005
othergirl syndrome
i'm a whiney, simpering waif when i'm stressed (mind you, that's the only time i'll EVER be waifish).
excuse that last trainwreck of a post. i think i have romanticized my dark, morose youth due to the fact that, while i was pitiful, i was at least prolific. i wrote like a fiend. it's easy to slip into old patterns when you feel overwhelmed.
i think it's because of my othergirl fascination.
i've always found myself transfixed by the portrayals of decidedly un-erica types. girls on film who bore some scant resemblance to me, physically or emotionally, who i watched with uneasy pleasure, feeling less alone.
first it was angela chase. we were both bookish sensitive girls who tried to stand out by dying our hair flaming red. we both had the tendency to adopt boys like stray kittens with the dim hope that we'd make them gentle, less feral. i had a few jordan catalanos, i have to admit. we'd both slam our doors and cry while listening to the cure. we were both trying to figure out who in the hell we were.
next, it was lelaina pierce. maybe it was just because i wanted to be winona ryder & had a devastating crush on ethan hawke. the whole unrequited love thing spoke to me in volumes and i always thought i'd find a beautiful, poetic, brilliant boy who didn't love me back. he would then realize just how spectacular my wit was and would come running back to me. cue U2 song.
next up, lucy. "stealing beauty"- just wanted to spend my summer in italy, writing, falling in love. maybe it was liv tyler's pout that got me. or the soundtrack. a fleeting infatuation... maybe i just longed for purity, innocence... her effortless charm...
the next one is typical- carrie bradshaw. cute quirky writer who always fell for the wrong men. funny, to now realize one of her boyfriends is my current screencrush. justin theroux. ah, tall, dark, thin, & tortured. just my type. ALWAYS my type. i just didn't have the insane shoe obsession- or the great apartment, come to think of it...
finally, and most recently, clementine krucynski. ah, clem. beautiful, fucked up clem. i'm obsessed with "eternal sunshine of the spotless mind." appallingly so, lamentably so. i cry like a baby every time i watch it and quote it haphazardly, without thinking. maybe it's because i secretly wish i was kate winslet, maybe it's because i'm hopeless romantic realist- part of me is transfixed by the perils of unrequited love, yet i always seem to believe things should work out. i find myself embarassed for clem, for her rampant drinking and "you know me- i'm impulsive"ness, yet love her nevertheless.
i bear little resemblance to all these women, yet find some odd comfort in relating to them.
maybe it's a sick twist on my long-abandoned theater life. i long to crawl into someone else's skin... and revel in the moments when i think someone else might have unwittingly crawled into mine.
excuse that last trainwreck of a post. i think i have romanticized my dark, morose youth due to the fact that, while i was pitiful, i was at least prolific. i wrote like a fiend. it's easy to slip into old patterns when you feel overwhelmed.
i think it's because of my othergirl fascination.
i've always found myself transfixed by the portrayals of decidedly un-erica types. girls on film who bore some scant resemblance to me, physically or emotionally, who i watched with uneasy pleasure, feeling less alone.
first it was angela chase. we were both bookish sensitive girls who tried to stand out by dying our hair flaming red. we both had the tendency to adopt boys like stray kittens with the dim hope that we'd make them gentle, less feral. i had a few jordan catalanos, i have to admit. we'd both slam our doors and cry while listening to the cure. we were both trying to figure out who in the hell we were.
next, it was lelaina pierce. maybe it was just because i wanted to be winona ryder & had a devastating crush on ethan hawke. the whole unrequited love thing spoke to me in volumes and i always thought i'd find a beautiful, poetic, brilliant boy who didn't love me back. he would then realize just how spectacular my wit was and would come running back to me. cue U2 song.
next up, lucy. "stealing beauty"- just wanted to spend my summer in italy, writing, falling in love. maybe it was liv tyler's pout that got me. or the soundtrack. a fleeting infatuation... maybe i just longed for purity, innocence... her effortless charm...
the next one is typical- carrie bradshaw. cute quirky writer who always fell for the wrong men. funny, to now realize one of her boyfriends is my current screencrush. justin theroux. ah, tall, dark, thin, & tortured. just my type. ALWAYS my type. i just didn't have the insane shoe obsession- or the great apartment, come to think of it...
finally, and most recently, clementine krucynski. ah, clem. beautiful, fucked up clem. i'm obsessed with "eternal sunshine of the spotless mind." appallingly so, lamentably so. i cry like a baby every time i watch it and quote it haphazardly, without thinking. maybe it's because i secretly wish i was kate winslet, maybe it's because i'm hopeless romantic realist- part of me is transfixed by the perils of unrequited love, yet i always seem to believe things should work out. i find myself embarassed for clem, for her rampant drinking and "you know me- i'm impulsive"ness, yet love her nevertheless.
i bear little resemblance to all these women, yet find some odd comfort in relating to them.
maybe it's a sick twist on my long-abandoned theater life. i long to crawl into someone else's skin... and revel in the moments when i think someone else might have unwittingly crawled into mine.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
anti-confidence
i'm the queen of self-loathing.
i mask it adeptly with humor and big words.
when i feel threatened, i shut off completely & a grimace comes to my face unknowingly. it makes people who don't know me think i'm an arrogant bitch.
pretty damn far from the truth.
i think m. is the only person on earth who really understands who i really am in regards to my relationships with others. i have the uncontrollable urge to take care of the people i love. he asked me for help writing a brand book for silk soy milk last night- the voice for the brand is supposed to be aimed at the nurterers of the world. he told me, "write this like you're talking to yourself." he declared, "you're the kind of person who gets more pleasure form watching people open their christmas presents than getting one yourself." he's so damn right, it's scary.
never having a real brother or sister, i've always considered my friends FAMILY. i want them to trust me, i want to make sure they're happy & comfortable & taken care of. after having almost all of the friends from my youth take advantage of my generosity and, eventually, either desert me or treat me like shit, it's easy to see why i have issues with people.
i'm not intimidating- i'm a freaking fluff ball who cries at the drop of a hat. it's the vocabulary that throws strangers off.
tuesday night i found myself in a rut at school. presenting stuff with a partner who just isn't that into me (or IT) and being scared shitless that it reflects badly upon my work, the nasty erica came out in front of the 30 person class. m. told me i stood there, arms crossed, a pissy look on my face, looking pretentious as all hell. the whole time, i was fighting back the urge to cry. as soon as i was done, i excused myself to sob quietly in the bathroom.
i never think i'm any good at anything & am always on the verge of quitting.
i don't know how to shift my perspective as all the self-love shit just sounds like hippie garbage to me.
i'm such a pain in the ass.
i mask it adeptly with humor and big words.
when i feel threatened, i shut off completely & a grimace comes to my face unknowingly. it makes people who don't know me think i'm an arrogant bitch.
pretty damn far from the truth.
i think m. is the only person on earth who really understands who i really am in regards to my relationships with others. i have the uncontrollable urge to take care of the people i love. he asked me for help writing a brand book for silk soy milk last night- the voice for the brand is supposed to be aimed at the nurterers of the world. he told me, "write this like you're talking to yourself." he declared, "you're the kind of person who gets more pleasure form watching people open their christmas presents than getting one yourself." he's so damn right, it's scary.
never having a real brother or sister, i've always considered my friends FAMILY. i want them to trust me, i want to make sure they're happy & comfortable & taken care of. after having almost all of the friends from my youth take advantage of my generosity and, eventually, either desert me or treat me like shit, it's easy to see why i have issues with people.
i'm not intimidating- i'm a freaking fluff ball who cries at the drop of a hat. it's the vocabulary that throws strangers off.
tuesday night i found myself in a rut at school. presenting stuff with a partner who just isn't that into me (or IT) and being scared shitless that it reflects badly upon my work, the nasty erica came out in front of the 30 person class. m. told me i stood there, arms crossed, a pissy look on my face, looking pretentious as all hell. the whole time, i was fighting back the urge to cry. as soon as i was done, i excused myself to sob quietly in the bathroom.
i never think i'm any good at anything & am always on the verge of quitting.
i don't know how to shift my perspective as all the self-love shit just sounds like hippie garbage to me.
i'm such a pain in the ass.
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