I just wanted to make sure you all knew that this isn’t a hair care blog. I am a writer first. I’ve just been feeling clouded lately. Journaling (blogging.. whatever you want to call it) has been a good outlet for me. Delivering this Home in Fifteen series has become a bit of an obligation to me and it’s really messing with the stress-releasing part of it all. That, in turn, inhibits me from making writing the livelihood I dream of. Catch 22. You win some, you lose some. I wouldn’t expect writing to be my income– not in this day and age. I just made a Drake reference.

Last night, my husband and I danced until we were sweaty. I maybe slapped every girl with my drunken shoulders and staggering feet. We then had Jimmy John’s, a sub place he recommended coming from the midwest. Now, along with Pancheros, Jimmy John’s has to be my favorite midwestern drunk food (and I had Pancheros sober). It was a great night, last night. The music could’ve been a smidge better. They played AlunaGeorge the last time we were there and that’s what really made me want to go back. We settled for things like Lil Jon mixes and hits you hear on the radio and that was okay for my hipster ego.

So, last night, I reached intoxicated enough to tell everyone how much I love my husband. We may have held hands and shouted “interracial relationships” in unison one or twelve times. Feeling philosophical the way I do when I drink too much, I really put into perspective the things I miss. It’s incredible how, when we were dating, every bar we went to played just the right music. There is a little hick bar in the downtown area that creeps with cobwebs nowadays; however, my memories are filled with some DJ scratching Faith Evans and Outkast while a big, sweaty black guy giggled flamboyantly in the middle of the bar. Those were great times. Everything was so fresh. We knew not one thing about each other. I said “my mom” a hundred times that night. I’m not sure if there’s a rule for girls constantly talking about their mothers but I was embarrassed nonetheless. And then I was lifted by Mr. Vegas making the unusually full bar wilder.

Sometimes I feel like all that stuff is a thing of the past– behavior meant for a stupid freshman girl getting trashed out of hatred for life. Sometimes, I’m fully over wanting to wear something tight and shake my tailfeather by myself. I no longer have a desire to wake up drunk. Like, why was that ever even a thing? And AJ, being twenty-four and self-convincingly “too old” to spend time anywhere flashier than a dive bar concurs. Now, I know we’re not too old for it; our priorities have just changed. My urges instead entail attempting Beef Wellington for dinner because AJ favors savory meats and I don’t really eat meat so it’s a fun bonding experience for the both of us and great muscle memory for myself who can’t cook. Now that I’m thinking about it, homemade pizza would really hit the spot tonight.

But, other times, I remember my darkest hours– the communal trash party eventually turning into solitaire trash parties and then my interpretation of discomposure epitomizing freedom. Well, I have a companion for life nowadays. When I do get sick of whatever it is I’m doing (unfortunate for AJ, the exhausting routine coursing my entire life), and I want to feel anything outside of my writing phases or my fitness kicks, I will probably attain sincere freedom within myself. I can be reminded that drinking is as fun as ever and that it can be associated with things outside of memories that perturb me. I want to traverse life better than I did before– like I’m “younger,” snickering again with someone I consider important. I want to be reminded of the mild rushes save for the negativity outlining my brain.

Partying again can be associated with something fun– bumping and grinding on my lovely husband, listening to music nostalgically seizing my body the way it did when we were dating, laughing at the nightlife with Jimmy John’s in our mouths, waking up drunk with a partner who I love who is also, in reality, young and free and who just so happens to be married just like me (married to me). It’s great to just have someone.

Also, I might quit my job.

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