It’s almost summer time. It’s time to start wearing shorts (and long sleeve shirts on top because this is San Francisco and summer is just the name of the season and not an indication of good weather), but my legs are not ready for shorts. I am covered in bruises and scrapes from the waist down it seems. That big one on my thigh? No idea where it came from. I mean, I know I got it at work, but I don’t remember how. On that same leg I also have a fading bruise on the side of my knee and a big old cut on my ankle from when I smashed it between a u-boat and a palette jack.

I am not a graceful person and my job is not a safe place for clumsy little me. Last month, I scraped up my shin pretty bad when I was moving a palette. I have a nice long scar from that. Last week, I dropped a big can of beer on my face when I was trying to face out the liquor aisle. I have a bruise on my nose from that. A bruise. On my nose. Last month I also scraped a big chunk of skin off my left thumb. I have a scar from that too. I have a blood blister from pinching my finger in the milk box door two weeks ago. I feel sometimes like I find a new way to hurt myself every day. 

My job is not the best job in the world. Sometimes I hate it. Most days, though, I like it. I like how physical it is. I like working getting a little sweaty and feeling sore after a long day. I like trying to keep with the boys. I mean, sometimes the pressure makes me want to cry, but my boss tells me I do a good job and that kind of makes it worth it. The bumps, bruises, and scars? I work hard and that’s my proof. 

So it’s shorts season and I’m all pale and bruised and scarred and just not ready for it. But it doesn’t matter that I will never look like those cute fashion blogger girls with their flawless skin and skinny legs. Nope, I’m all cut up and flawed. It’s ok—I can still rock those shorts. I look adorable.  

I just ran a 7:39 mile. Super proud of myself. I haven’t run a full mile (slash run at all) in over a year. My goal is to get this down to 6 minutes and to be able to run a 5k by the end of the year. Also, I want to get in shape. I’m ok with my weight, but I’m not ok with my complete lack of muscle/core strength/flexibility. Obviously I’ll need to do some other kinds of exercise to work on those things, but this mile is a big step for my lazy ass.

blutundschonheit:

operationkino:

I feel like I wouldn’t know what to do with this space.

I’d rather have a small cozy flat than something like this.

I think it could work if you put up cool room dividers or floor to ceiling curtains? But I mean obvsly the owner couldn’t even really manage this space with all of this shit just laying around over in the corners, it’s not smartly used or anything.

A space like this would stress me out. I would not like to live there at all. I recently moved from a room that was too big for my things to a room that just barely fits all my furniture and I am much happier in the smaller room. My old room was consistently cluttered and I never knew what to do with the extra space. I felt anxious whenever I had to spend time there. This place would be like that but worse. The new room fits me. My boyfriend teased me about it, “everyone wants more space, but not little Wee.” Nope, not me. I like my comfortingly small room.  

(Source: holyhearteyes, via blutundschonheit-deactivated201)

It’s finals week and this is exactly how I feel. 

(Source: gingerhaze, via ledejeuner)

Of all the celebrities, all those famous, glitzy people, you know who my ideal spouse is? Stanley Tucci. I’m not entirely sure why I feel this way. He just seems like a really, really nice guy. A stable guy. A fun guy. A good one to be down in the trenches with.

This is so random, but I had to share with someone.

I have a big forehead and I have always been self-conscious of it. I’ve used bangs to hide that fact for the past year, but I think I’ll start pinning them back every now and again. I need to learn to deal with my insecurity instead of just avoiding it. At 21, I should be comfortable with my face. I mean, this is probably as good as I’ll ever look. Might as well learn to enjoy it, right?

Unrelated: It’s a little hard to see in this picture, but my new shirt puts my ~brassiere on display for the whole world. My mother would be appalled. I kind of love the way the purple looks through the lace.

Red hair. I’ve missed this color. I’ve missed standing out. I’ve missed feeling fun and cute even when I’m wearing jeans and a too big sweater. 

GPOYW. Wedding edition. I wore this dress from Express to my boyfriend’s cousin’s wedding a few weeks ago. I was worried that it was too short, but I received quite a few compliments on it, including his mother telling me I chose the perfect dress. Fuck yes. It was a great night and I had a whole hell of a lot of fun hanging out with my boyfriend and his sisters and cousins all night. That whole stressful meeting the parents/family for the first time thing turned out to be way easier than I thought it would be and I’m actually looking forward to seeing them again. His family is super cute and fun. 

(Posting this photo here for posterity because, hey, I looked damn good.)

GPOY—I have a wand! The boyfriend got it for me for my birthday! Great present or greatest present? 

Also, I’m watching videos from the HP7.2 premiere and everyone is making me cry! Especially Emma and Jo. Mostly Emma’s perfect face. It was a terrible idea to watch this after I put on my make-up. I love those kids and Jo something fierce and I’m going to miss them all. I’m realizing now that most of next Thursday night is going to be me trying to not sob too loudly so as not to ruin the movie-watching experience for anyone else. I’ve already warned everyone that I’m going with (including my boss and my boyfriend) that I’m going to cry and they are not allowed to make fun of me under any circumstances.

My 21st birthday in a nutshell.

I kid.

Sort of.

Basically, I was a stereotype and got super, duper drunk. I imbibed more alcohol in 48 hours than I have in the last six months. Good times. My friends are awesome, terrible people who treated me to a pretty fantastic night (from what I recall). Three nights, actually.  

And now I have zero desire to ever drink like that again. Or drink alcohol at all for the next six months. The mere thought of a beer makes me feel sick. I have yet to buy myself a drink of any sort and have no plans to. Everyone thinks I’m weird. I think I’m smart.