I tried a new nail salon that just opened up on my block, so the lovely owner gave me the hard sell (in slightly broken English)….
Owner: “We give you 20% off today. And you tell your friends about us? I see you live in neighborhood!”
Me: “I do! But how can you tell?”
Owner: “You carry the Starbuck drink and you wear the clothes for going to gym.”
Me: “Ha! You’re right! I am heading to the gym!”
I’m not. These are my regular clothes.
You know you have a problem when you whip out your iPhone to show the waitress that it is 30 seconds until noon so you can, in fact, order this Bloody Mary.
Now hurry.
Do NOT let Google predict what you need.
In other upsetting news, I’m a poop. 
“Your hands smell like cheese snacks.”
— woman giving me a hand massage at the hair salon.
Just now, walking in my apartment, I stepped on something extremely sharp that almost pierced through the heel of my foot. I was sure it was a broken piece of glass and began to panic.
Upon closer inspection, however, I realized it was a super dry, likely weeks-old piece of bacon.
So yeah, it’s true what they say. Bacon is bad for you.
Just ran into my Super outside the compactor room, which is next to the laundry room.
Super: “Emily, you did laundry yesterday, yes?”
Me: “Yes!”
Super: “There were some things left in one of the dryers. I put them on the counter in there, you might want to check if they’re yours.”
Me: “Oh, ok, great! Thank you! They probably ARE mine, that sounds like something I would do.”
I enter the laundry room, and sitting on the counter is a SUPER tiny black lace thong and a pair of ridiculously worn-out cotton underwear that clearly should have been thrown away years ago.
Me (yelling): “Oh my gosh– no, no, no! These are definitely NOT mine!”
Super (laughing): “Oh, ok.”
Me: “I swear! I can be forgetful, but I’d never leave items like THAT lying around!”
Super: “Ok. Somebody else then!”
Me: “How embarrassing for THAT person!”
They are 100% mine.
1:17pm– the point during my work day at which I realized my shirt is on inside out.
A few months ago a girl moved into my building– young, a teacher, seemingly normal and cool. Someone I would actually hang out with. We spoke in the lobby for a bit, exchanged apartment numbers, and said we’d see each other soon. I haven’t run into her since– until just now, in the elevator.
Girl: “Hey! How have you been?!”
Me: “Not much!”
And then our friendship ended.
Yeah. I lit a candle.
Guess I’ll put away my puffy coat and grab my spring trench for the next 10 hours because NOTHING MAKES SENSE ANYMORE.
To be clear, the seasonal affective part of me is thrilled with this randomly warm, if only for half a day, weather. But the anxious part of me worries that The Walking Dead is happening for real.
I understand that The Walking Dead has nothing to do with weather. But, like, you get it. The apocalypse. Death to mankind. Widespread chaos and destruction.
I’m not saying I actually believe any of this, I’m just saying that I bought some guns.
Because better safe than sorry and besides, it was SO EASY.
I just walked into the store screaming THE APOCALYPSE IS COMING and the guy behind the counter shrugged his shoulders and sold me 11 semi automatics.
I forgot why I started writing this.
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