Weekend Update (My Weekend is Monday-Wednesday)
Hello to the ether. Sometimes I wish this a newsletter where thousands of my fans read their biweekly emails containing my profound witticisms. Other times I wish this was a journal, bound by societal expectations that no one’s eyes but my own see these written words. Or typed. In the end, this website known as Medium falls somewhere in between for me. To those reading, I love you so much that I’m going to pretend you’re not even allowed to read what I’m typing. I’m giving the gift of accessibility to my journal-adjacent blog. Blog? Is Medium considered a blog? Unfortunately I am genuinely asking.
A few weeks ago I deleted TikTok off my phone. Not my account but just the app. This is a huge distinction, coming from someone who downloads (fill in blank) dating app for 48 hours before deactivating my profile and regretting the past two days of existence. The TikTok hiatus was brought on by my introduction to Sedona Prince, the 6'7" lesbian basketball player from the University of Oregon. Eugene is an absolute ridiculous name for a college town. You know what else is ridiculous? My obsession with this person. When I first discovered her, I stayed up until 4am watching their content. Quick note, I was introduced SLIGHTLY before her full entry into the zeitgeist, which makes me a fangirl trailblazer. Literally 95 percent of that previous sentence was illiterate ~garbage.~ But I am back on the stuff now. The stuff being TikTok. Absolutely NOT a dating app.
Dating apps are essentially a snack for me. Actually, no. I have a better analogy. You know when you’re watching a film or a television show, and some actor on screen is “eating.” And what I mean by that is that they are pushing food around on a plate for $150 a day. I will pick one or two morsels of humans and push them around on a plate, making plans with them. Then before I take the bite, I push the plate away. Recently I made plans to ride bikes with a girl, but she didn’t have a bike. So I deactivated my account. I will only date someone with a bike and that’s only if I ever want to date someone at all!
I wish I could write something cohesive with symbolism and meanings revealed that make people say “wow, she’s SO talented.” Trust me, I definitely think I’m talented, but I don’t have the masses flocking to the corners of my social media to tell me so. One of my friends from high school has been sharing her writing on TikTok, and it’s lovely. Others think so as well, which is why she’s garnered a few more followers. I was, of course, immediately jealous. This dissolved quickly into pride and happiness. But still! How are people so eloquent! There are high schoolers that write essays that get them into Harvard. It’s astounding that an original piece of writing can even be formulated to this day. I know I’ve lamented on this before, but in my actual journal, I basically repeat the same three thoughts over and over again, just under a different date each day. Why should this be any different?
I just watched my cat catch a fly midair and eat it. Cats brains are the size of walnuts. Sometimes I think humans are not so different from our nut brain pets. In the end I too just want sleep, food, sunshine, and to dig my nails into the objects of those who have more money than me.
Mondays are my Saturdays, if that makes any sense. I needed to go to the library which is a brag, but decided that I should do errands for leisure before errands for business. I’ve had matcha twice before and hated it so I decided to give it one more chance. I was walking to a coffee shop two red line stops from my apartment and saw an almost too-large antique shop. The thing about antique shops is that they are supposed to be so small that with any given movement you will knock over everything in sight and have fodder for therapy for the next 3–5 sessions. There was smoked glassware in the window which was divine intervention because I had just broken my tiny smoked green glass. I thought it wasn’t my fault but in the end, it was. Liquid was seeping out of the side. She had an unceremonious burial into the recycling, which led to me walking into the oversized antique shop.
None of the glasses lived up to the recently deceased. I wanted to leave but the proprieter would not allow me to without fully appreciating his wares. Wandering downstairs, I found a lot of jumpsuits (score) that had Chicago Police patches on them (no) but they were all too big and I’m not confident in my patch-removal skills. The greatest gift was yet to come anyway, because sitting behind the 14,000 police uniforms was a pair of rollerblades. This was my second experience with rollerblades in a basement. My first encounter was 19 years ago. I tripped over a rollerblade in my cousins’ basement and sliced me thumb on a bed rail. The “me” in that previous sentence was not a typo, but rather a way for me to play with grammar in order to cope with the fact that one of my thumbs in now longer than the other.
Putting on rollerblades while standing up is really hard but not impossible. I stood alone in this basement, four wheels on each foot, debating whether or not this was how I wanted to waste my cash tips for the week.
They clanked together in rhythm as I ascended the stairs. “Those’ll be thirty-five dollars. Inline skates. Really good.” I know as much about skates as I do hedge funds, which is to say that thrice a year I demand one of my friends in finance to explain the concept to me once again. There was no way in absolute hell that I was walking out of that store with thirty-five less dollars to my name. That being said, I’m conflict-adverse. You could punch me and I’d still offer to bake you a pie in the hopes that you’ll continue to follow me on social media.
“Hmmm, I don’t know about that.” The woman could sense I was not bluffing. At any given moment, I am ready to walk out of an establishment and go home to simply exist alone. This was no exception. She offered to me have them for thirty. I was entering my first negotiation ever, unconfident but nevertheless playing the role of “sexy haggler.”
Eventually, my hesitancy to be direct for even one millisecond while continuing to grasp the rollerblades in my child-sized hands forced the cashier to ask “well how much were you thinking?” Sensing that I was a cross between entertaining and extremely annoying, I proffered a gorgeous middle ground of twenty-five dollars, which famously isn’t even a middle ground, but rather a humble ten dollar discount.
Paying with my Monopoly money, and leaving with no new drinking vessels but two new shoes (depending on how you view skates), I determined that maybe I am actually combative. Maybe before I was just too medicated, and my lower dose of anti-depressants is showing my toxicity. Who’s to say.
Regardless of my toxcitiy, I am an extremely forgiving person, meaning after the vintage shop I went to the coffee shop to give matcha a third chance. She didn’t disappoint, this time. 20 mg Prozac Jennifer is a matcha fan.
