- eye mask pushed all up on my hair (dirty, because I just got some bleach)

- blue-and-white-striped Petit Bateau shirt and Nick and Nora flamingos-at-Christmas-themed jammie pants

- love songs

What’s missing in the world is an acknowledgement about the other plagues, the extra-love plagues. I’m in a state and it’s not because of a guy; I haven’t been heartsick in two years (WORD, IS THAT BAD?). This year, I got three new columns (Vice, Elle and the National Post, which I’m starting up again this week after a long break). I love The Grid. I went to Mexico with my mom and two sisters, I did two weeks in New York and Boston with one of my best friends, I’m about to go to California for the winter by myself. I spent an absolutely sick amount of hours having a really good time and being with my friends and an equal amount of time being alone in my apartment with all that good alone shit. I met some nices and some cutes. 30, in theory, was fine. But this has also been the most trying, horrible year since I was 18 (who cares, but, it ended up with me dropping out of high school and doing yoga every day). Work, friends, family, purpose, place. I like to think I’m pretty smart about this stuff, at least about identifying it and knowing it, and when I’m with people who I don’t need to employ all this obliqueness with (sorry, pals), I can articulate it well. I know some of the answers, like, the selfishness necessitated and created by my current way of living is making me unhappy. BUT when you get to your one-hundred-and-twentieth night in a row of feeling, like, REVOLT against your own willed-into-existence and disgustingly privileged life, it’s very WHERE ARE MY SONGS?