I’m horrible at giving gifts. I don’t know what anybody wants and what a “thoughtful” gift is. If you want a card, though, I can be meaningful as fuck and write you a sonnet that will make you sob.
Picture this: You’re recently promoted and literally working under your new boss for like 4 days (mostly remotely because you’re also in the process of moving offices) and she gets engaged.
If you live in the Northeast of America, you know exactly what blizzard I’m’ referring to when I mention the 2016 Blizzard.
The other day I was sitting in a Starbucks, clacking away on my laptop while waiting for the train (OH GOD I HAVE BECOME WHAT I HATE), and some random dude next to me saw me updating this very blog.
The day has finally come, something I had loved to until it literally overheated, had finally died. My large HP entertainment like 600-inch screen has finally kicked the bucket.
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You know when you’re life is so deeply screwed for a period of time that you start trying to rub two pennies to make a dollar?
Yes, yes yes yes. I hear the voices of the imagined peanut gallery telling me, “Nutmeg, why the fuck are you posting another Cranberry dessert. Do you know what month it is?”
I know what month it is, thank you. I know it ain’t Christmas anymore.
When I was in college, I used to date this horrid person. This isn’t the wah-wah-wah of a bitter ex, oh no, this is the musings of an emotionally abused woman.
Yeah. BOMBS DROPPED on the first line of a Valentine’s day post, huh? Well, it’s true. I was emotionally abused for almost 3 years. I got to experience myself go from this bubbly, frothy, easygoing sort of girl into this clammy, dead-eyed shell of a human. You all know how much I love to curse, along with talk about dicks and cake in the same breath. Well, that person did not exist in my early 20s.
Ok, so you’re all gonna laugh, but I’ve been honestly planning on what to do for my 100 followers post back when I was only at like 70. I peaked at 70 for a good long while — figures that going on a blogging hiatus for several months would cause some problems. A-duh! Right?
Well, right. Now that I know that.
I have this theory that… you really know you have your life in order when you mise en place.
Never do I ever do mise en place with baking. I mean, seriously, that requires some planning through the fortnight and shit. Normally I just grab a fistful of flour and throw it around until a misshapen cake appears. It’s always worked for me, okay?