living

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I have a bullet journal that I no longer use.

I used to use it religiously. Every Sunday I’d sit down and make my calendar for the week, jotting down goals and daily tasks and appointments. It was soothing, organizing the minutiae of my life, page by tangible page. I could look back through the weeks and see what I’d accomplished, what I still wanted to do. I felt control over things that had felt overwhelming before. At the time, it was good for me.

Recently, I showed it to Adam and explained how it worked, how it had eased my anxiety and organized my life. I showed him the hockey games I’d attended, the writing goals I’d set and met, the online Diablo dates and flights to Missoula. I showed him where it began to taper off, the to do lists growing intermittent, black pen replacing the carefully placed washi tape and perfectly spaced lettering to mark each new day on the page.

And then I stopped altogether, not halfway through the journal.

“I guess I just got lazy,” I said, feeling self-consciously like my abandonment of the bullet journal might reflect negatively on me, like I’d been irresponsible. Like I’d shirked my duties as a good, professional, organized thirty-something.

“Maybe it means you didn’t need it anymore,” said Adam, overturning my self-critical perception in a few easy words (as per usual). Maybe, he continued, I stopped using the journal because I didn’t need that control anymore. Maybe I stopped because I was too busy living.

He was, of course, right. There are probably many reasons why I stopped using the bullet journal, and maybe one of them is laziness. But before, I’d felt I needed the bujo. That my life would spiral out of control without it, that I’d never stay on top of anything if it wasn’t written down in neat little bullets every day. And then I wrote a book, and fell back in love with my city, and practiced positive self-talk, and began journaling — truly journaling, writing down the little things in life that made me happy and the things I was proud of and the things I liked to do — and I forgot about the bullet journal.

In the many months since the bujo’s abandonment, I’ve been happier than any other time in my adult life. I’m not writing as much since I finished my book, and I’m not reading as much, but I’m going outside more. I’m experiencing the city. And I’m excited to do things! It used to be so hard to get me to leave the house, but I love planning activities for the weekend now. I feel like I’m living my life in a different way than I have in a long time. I’m kinder to myself and others, I’m open to more things, and I’m taking things day by day as much as I can. I fucking love it.

It also helps that I’m in love. But that’s a subject for another post.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that I don’t write here anymore. I think this blog may have gone the way of the bujo — I don’t need it as much as I did. I don’t need to work out these conflicting thoughts on the page. I don’t need to vent my troubles here anymore, because I’m not alone with them anymore.

So farewell to the bujo. It served me well when I needed it. And now, instead of embarrassment at neglecting my organizational tool, I feel grateful. It was right for me at the time, and now I’m living the way that’s right for me now.

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christmastime feelings

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Earlier this year, I wrote about the things I wanted to accomplish in 2018, and the person I wanted to become. The latter was most important to me, but tangible goals are great too!

In 2018, I wanted to: 1. Write a book, and 2. Get a hot boyfriend. I succeeded in both of these pursuits, despite some serious doubts on my end. It would be too expected and cliche to say I’m happier than I’ve been in a long long time, but… I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.

First off, what the fuck, I wrote a book! I wrote a whole novel, start to finish, edited and sent out to publishers, in 2018. That in itself is still almost beyond comprehension to me, and I’m the one who sat down every night after work and weekends and during lunch breaks and wrote the damn thing. And I’m so proud of what I wrote. It was a story I’d been thinking about putting to paper for years, so to finally bring it to life was… not a dream come true, but a difficult goal accomplished. I’m so proud, no matter what comes of it.

While we’re talking about dreams coming true, let me direct you to this quote from my 2018 resolutions post:

“I’m going to rely on the love of my friends and family, and I’m gonna do my best to be the truest version of myself for that hot hot boyfriend when he finally bursts through the door of my life, Kramer-style.”

Reader, I did that. Over the course of the last twelve months, I’ve worked consciously and deliberately to shed all of the armor I’d built up over my heart in the years prior. I’ve meditated, read tarot, journaled regularly, and altered my thoughts and behaviors in ways that are kinder and more loving — to myself and others. I’ve worked hard to form a healthier mental relationship with my own writing and creative endeavors. I’ve done everything I can to become the best possible version of Meg. And while there’s always room for growth and work to be done (and there will be every year for the rest of my life), I am so proud of how far I’ve come in 2018.

So when that hot boyfriend burst unexpectedly into my life, I was in a place where I could let my heart be vulnerable. I can’t tell you how happy I am. It’s still very new, and so exciting, but I honestly didn’t know a person could be this happy in a relationship.

I’ve written about my “perfect man” before, briefly in this blog, and at length in my personal journal. But he was always a dream, an unreachable ideal, a lofty goal to hope for but never truly believe in. Not to say that my boyfriend is perfect (no one is, even though I couldn’t come up with any specific flaws about him if you asked), but I truly didn’t think there was someone out there in the world who could fit so easily into my life.

I didn’t think I’d ever find the “funny, cute, shares my interests, gainfully employed, feminist” man I told my dad I was looking for.

But like… I did.

You never know how, or if, things will work out. There’s no possible way to predict what will happen in 2019 and beyond. But I do know that right now, I’m stupidly happy. I’m loving every second of a new relationship, I’m writing, and I like who I am. A lot. 2018 has been a hell of a good year, and I’m ready to dive into the next one with gusto.

venom: romantic wish fulfillment for the grown-up twilight fangirl

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It’s no secret that I’ve been horny for the union between Eddie Brock and the Venom symbiote since I staggered, shaken and aroused, out of a Venom matinee last Saturday. And I wasn’t alone — not that I ever worried I would be, knowing that we’re all just a bunch of horny monster-fucker freaks on here. But for most of those thirsting after the roiling mass of sweat, teeth, tongue, and black goo that is Venom/Eddie, perhaps the allure stops at the sexual. For some of us, though, the fascination runs deeper.

I’m talking pulling up AO3 and reading fanfic ’til 3:00 AM on a work night type of deep. There’s “boy what that tongue do tho,” and then there’s “Venom and Eddie are the pinnacle of romantic love, couple of the year, actual soul mates, and I will literally die for them.”

I fall into the latter camp.

To be fair, I’ve never not fallen into this camp when it comes to my thirst, which tends to be inextricably tied to my heart. But rarely do I fall so far and so fast. In the wake of this sudden descent, I’ve been wasting a lot of valuable time thinking about the dynamic between Eddie and Venom, and what about it speaks to me with such intensity.

What it really boils down to is that, as a thirty-something woman, I’ve found that Venom and Eddie’s codependent human/monster relationship scratches the same itch that Twilight scratched for me in my early twenties. Who can resist a deeply obsessive, just bristling with red flags, type of romantic entanglement? I certainly can’t!

There’s something deep in the lizard brain of an adolescent girl that wants desperately to die for love. I’m talking Romeo and Juliet levels of unhealthy, irrational nonsense wherein you and your lover forsake everything good and important in life in favor of your horny teenage infatuation. The notion may sound silly now, but oh, when you’re a teenage girl, it feels so pure and right. I used to lie awake at night and fantasize about ethereal boys emerging from magical lands and sweeping me away from my life, from my worries, and whispering things like “I belong to you,” or “I would die for you” huskily in my ear.

It was the ultimate escapist romantic fantasy.

Rationally, logically, as a functioning human who has been to therapy and takes medications and has been in relationships and knows what’s healthy and what’s not, I know that Edward and Bella are the perfect example of a toxic relationship. Their love is codependent, possessive, obsessive, and actually just creepy. But there goes my adolescent lizard brain again, telling me it’s not wrong… it’s sexy. There’s something in me that, despite all rational thought, just absolutely yearns for a mutual obsession masquerading as romance.

Look back through my oeuvre of ships, and you’ll see it: Sherlock/John, Dean/Castiel, Hannibal/Will. These are all couples who, on varying levels, depend upon and are obsessed with each other — and that’s just in the source material. When you bring fandom works into it, everything amps up exponentially, to the point where you have Sherlock Holmes licking John Watson’s eyeball at a crime scene in what is somehow a demonstration of lustful ownership.

I hated typing that last sentence so much I want to die, but I can’t hide from who I am. This is the shit I feed on. Possessive creepiness is my guilty pleasure, my I-don’t-actually-want-this-but-I-do-kinda romantic fantasy. Eddie and Venom fit neatly into the pattern, a human man who’s lost everything and the monster who biologically cannot live without him. They’re not just in a toxic codependent relationship, they’re literally unable to separate from one another physically without risking each other’s lives. A man and a monster, inextricable. In that way, Eddie and Venom don’t just fit into the pattern — they redefine it.

It’s not just the mutual physical dependence that gets me going. In the comics, Venom and Eddie are in a canonically romantic relationship. Eddie refers to Venom as his “love” and his “darling.” They’re both constantly waxing poetic about how they couldn’t live without one another, they didn’t feel whole until they were together, and other overwrought pronouncements that get me semi-hard.

Their love is obsession, and it’s possession. At one point in the comics, Eddie is fighting Scorpion, who had recently been inhabited by the Venom symbiote. Instead of talking trash while sparring with his enemy like any normal anti-hero, Eddie makes comments like, “As if [Venom] would ever leave me for you.” Scorpion doesn’t even want Venom, my dude. Chill out. But Eddie can’t chill out, because the number one priority in his life is belonging to Venom, and engaging in violent altercations to prove that he’d take any number of beatings just to keep his alien boyfriend safely inside of him.

And that’s another thing. Remember how, in the Twilight series, Edward and Bella were pretty much inseparable? The same applied in Twilight fanfic AU Fifty Shades of Grey. Both couples were so in sync that they were almost physically fused at the hip, so much so that their friends and family commented on it. Not to be fucking outdone, Eddie and Venom take it a step further by jointly existing in literally the same body.

Not only can Venom and Eddie communicate essentially telepathically (although I’ve yet to see Eddie talk to Venom without speaking out loud), they feel each other’s emotions. Venom can even experience Eddie’s dreams while he sleeps. Imagine the sheer incandescent joy of being not only mutually obsessed with your lover, but crammed together with him in the same consciousness. They can’t even dream without the other listening in.

Let’s cut to the chase: Eddie and Venom have a super hot physical setup going on. Venom can actually control Eddie’s movements, which lends itself to a whole spectrum of sexy possibilities. And at any moment, black tendrils of goo could erupt from beefy boy Eddie Brock, enveloping his body completely. At any moment, he could simultaneously be Venom and be engulfed by Venom, half in and half out of this undulating, seething black mass of goo and teeth and salivating tongue.

You know what else is hot? An “us against the world” trope. You know who fits that trope seamlessly? Eddie and Venom. No one on Earth could possibly understand what it’s like for Eddie, a man inhabited by his romantic partner, a man who wears his romantic partner like a suit of armor when the need strikes. A man who takes his partner out to dinner in the seediest alleys of San Francisco in search of human heads to swallow whole. Beyond the bizarre physical situation, with Venom riding shotgun, Eddie Brock is always going to be Other. He talks to himself, is often overwhelmed by intense and impossible-to-explain cravings, and shares thoughts and feelings with a literal alien from outer space. Nobody can truly understand him. That is, nobody but Venom.

Eddie and Venom’s physical needs, their love, their obsession, and the world at large are all working to push the two closer together, to fuse them into a being that seems to be nothing but codependence, obsession, lust, and… well, tenderness.

Because really, at the end of the day, without the occasional soft word of affection or wholesome domestic activity, these fucked up fantasies of mine would fall apart. In the moments of levity shared between Eddie and Venom, the moments when Venom saves Eddie’s life, or Eddie calls Venom “dear” in the middle of an action sequence — it’s those moments that break through the darkness and keep me coming back, like a willing victim of Stockholm syndrome.

“Maybe it’s not toxic,” I think, knowing full well that this is some fucked up shit. “Maybe this really is… what it means to find your soulmate?”

While I know full well that none of these fictional relationships would make me — or anyone — truly happy, the fantasy of losing myself completely in someone else is one that I keep coming back to, no matter how old I get. So instead of feeling guilty or swinging by church to confess my carnal sins to Jesus, I just have to go with it sometimes. And this thirty-something woman could really go for some creepy alien symbiote possessiveness right about now.

another one of those body image posts

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Content warning: weight, body image, food, and so on.

(Also, please note that I’m writing purely about my own experiences, and this isn’t meant to reflect anything but my inner thoughts. I’m not trying to get any point across. I just want to unload, as it were.)

I’ve struggled with my body since I was in my early 20s. I know, I was kind of old. When I read articles about girls and body image, it always says that girls begin worrying about weight when they’re young, too young. But I was in my early 20s, a few years into college, and it happened when I gained 40 lbs.

This happened for a few reasons. First, I started taking anti-anxiety medication, which meant that for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sick to my stomach from worry all the time. I actually had an appetite! I was able to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and no one — not even my anxiety — could stop me. Second, I was happy. I was in a serious, emotionally fulfilling, and comfortable relationship. And we ate together. A lot. I ate the same massive portions as my boyfriend, a 6’3″ 24-year-old with a lightning-fast metabolism. And third, I didn’t know anything about nutrition. My idea of eating “healthy” was like… a bagel and cream cheese. I had no idea what calories or fiber or fat or any of that meant. I just ate what tasted good.

So, unsurprisingly, I gained 40 lbs in the space of probably a year. At one point, I had lost so much weight due to anxiety that I only weighed 90 lbs. Less than two years after that, I weighed 140 lbs. I’m 5’1″, so it was a very significant and very noticeable change. My body didn’t handle it well — I had burst blood vessels all over my thighs, where my weight gain was most substantial, and stretch marks due to the rapid expansion of my skin. My digestion was fucked up, and I no longer knew how to dress my new body.

It was a confusing time for me! Obviously, as I said, I was so happy in my relationship and school and, after I graduated, my job. But I didn’t like how I looked, and I didn’t understand how this change had happened so suddenly.

Finally, at the advice of my mom, I started Weight Watchers. When I set goals I keep them, so I stuck with it, and by the time I went to grad school in London a couple years later, I had lost almost all the weight I’d gained. I liked the way I looked in my clothes again, and I had learned to understand how my body responded to food.

But unlike my body, my mentality never went back to baseline. Up until the time I started gaining weight, I rarely, if ever, looked at my body and disliked what I saw. I just didn’t think about it. It helped that I weighed 100 lbs and had other pressing concerns, like my bad hair or braces or acne or general air of awkward and unapproachable loser. But even after I lost weight, I had become aware of one terrifying fact: I could gain weight. I wasn’t immune. At any moment, I felt, my body could betray me and go back to the way it had been: unfamiliar, uncomfortable, difficult to dress, and — I feel awful just typing this — repulsive, from my warped point of view.

I’ve lost more weight since then. I gain weight easily, because I’m super short with the most sedentary lifestyle possible, so it tends to go up and down. But the most upsetting thing, and the thing that I knew would be true but never really understood, is that no matter how small I get, no matter the fact that the GAP petite size 00 is now too big for me, a day never goes by that I don’t think a negative — if not truly hateful — thought about my body.

I know I am not alone. I know this is something all people experience, especially women. And I feel weird writing about it because I am very small, I’m white, I fit pretty well within traditional Western beauty standards. I know this, and remind myself of this as much as I can. But even knowing all that, it is so incredibly hard to reach a healthy place with my body image.

In the past two years I’ve stopped weighing myself, deleted MyFitnessPal, and stopped counting my calories obsessively. For the most part, I eat when I’m hungry, and only what will sate my hunger — I don’t overeat (unless I go out with the express purpose of doing so, which, let’s face it, is still one of life’s biggest pleasures).

Another important step I’ve made is that, instead of relying on my boyfriend to verify my “hotness,” which I was very guilty of doing when I had one, now I’m doing my best to tell myself I’m hot. Whenever I catch myself starting to spiral into a dark place of self-loathing, I consciously have to decide to make positive statements about myself instead. I remind myself that there’s no point to hating the way I look. Literally none whatsoever. If I want to watch what I eat, fine, but beating myself up will only result in misery. So I do my best to say kind things to myself, focus on the parts of myself that I love — both physical and otherwise — and move on with my day.

For the most part, teaching myself to be kind and loving to myself is getting easier. I’m starting to believe myself more and more when I say loving things, and to catch myself when I say hateful things. I refuse to say things to myself that I would never say to a loved one. If there’s one person in life who I should love and care for above all others, it’s me. So why say cruel words when I could say kind ones?

It’s been a long and difficult journey. And I’m writing about it now because I just put on a pair of shorts that fit me last year, and which I’ve now discovered just barely fit over my ass. I started to have a breakdown, thinking I was hideous, that I had to throw away all my clothes, that I was a deformed freak. Like, what the fuck? Just insane, irrational, ridiculous thoughts. But before I could truly spiral out of control, I paused and thought: why have I gained weight? What contributed to my thighs getting just a little doughier, my stomach having slightly deeper folds when I sit down?

Here’s what happened in the past year. I got my wisdom teeth removed, which caused me to have a massive outbreak of hives due to the anesthesia and narcotic medications I was taking. The steroids I took to treat the hives caused a bit of weight gain; that’s just the way they work. After the hives cleared up and I could eat solid foods again, and I was overcome with this renewed appreciation for the world after spending almost three weeks bedridden and in so much pain I could barely function. So I went out to eat a lot, I enjoyed food a lot, and it made me happy. I didn’t limit myself, because I wanted to enjoy life. And then I got a promotion at work, I have a little more money, and I like to spend money on eating out at foodie restaurants with my bestie; it’s one of my favorite things to do in life. So yeah, after all that, I gained some weight. But all of those things were either unavoidable, or truly positive.

Would I take back any of the incredible, delicious meals I’ve eaten this year? Absolutely not. Would I take back even the traumatic experience with the hives? No, I don’t think I would. It was an experience that I think directly led me to write an entire novel in two months in the direct aftermath. That experience gave me what felt, at the time, like a new lease on life. So no, I wouldn’t change any of these things.

So why should I hate the changes in my body that reflect these important experiences? Why should I hate that my thighs won’t fit in these stupid shorts? The reason they won’t fit is because I’ve eaten good food, spent time with good friends, and gone through some shit that I wouldn’t take back, even if I could.

Do I have a totally healthy body image? No. Does anyone? Probably not. I don’t think I’ll ever 100% love my body, or go a full day without a critical thought about my body flitting through my head. But I realized today that it’s a long journey, one which I may never reach the end of, and I’ve already come such a long way. I’m really proud of that. All I can do is keep at it.

And here’s a reminder to myself, to you, to anyone: be nice to yourself. As much as you can. Even if it’s just once a day, for 30 seconds. Say kind things to yourself. It’s wild how much of a difference it makes.

wtf to write next

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I’ve been thinking a lot about what book I want to write next. If this were a world where I wasn’t averse to throwing caution to the wind and writing whatever the hell I wanted with no regard for my future career as a novelist, I’d write a sequel to the book I wrote earlier this year. I’m not ready to say goodbye to these characters, and there are so many stories I could tell in the world I made for them.

Buuut if my book doesn’t sell, I want to have the next project in the works already. Something to live for, if I’m being dramatic about it, which I always am. A sequel, if I start writing one, will die on the vine if book one isn’t a success. So I’m keeping those stories in the back of my mind, percolating, until they’re needed.

In the meantime, I’ve written bits of other things. I outlined a complete YA fantasy rom com and wrote 11k words of it before… well, I got bored with it. I was going to say it wasn’t “speaking to me” or that it wasn’t the genre I wanted to write at this point in my life, in an effort to make myself sound less wishy-washy, but I honestly just got bored. I figure that’s a luxury I have now, while I’m unpublished and free to dick around with book ideas until one sticks, so I’m allowing myself to drop projects after 11k words and move on. No deadlines and no expectations? A good thing!

The thing is, I have a lot of ideas but nothing is grabbing me, needing to be written. I think the most promising option right now is to write something in the world of my book, but with different characters and planets and conflicts. A spinoff, a distant prequel, something?? But I just don’t know. There are things I love to read and things I’m good at writing, and I’m learning that those things don’t necessarily intersect. Nor should they, I guess. I love writing light-hearted action-packed romantic comedies in space, so… I’m thinking maybe that’s what I should keep writing.

Part of me thinks I should branch out or change it up, just to keep from getting stuck in a rut, but… why? As I said before, it’s not like I have deadlines. Nobody expects anything from me, not yet.

Then why do I feel so stuck? How have I not come up with the plot of my next book yet?

Oh my god how do people come up with ideas!!??? !!1??

Hhhhhhow.

Guys, how!!

Anyway I’ve started having an existential crisis, so I guess it’s time to go to bed. This was a pointless post. Bye.

a room of one’s own

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Lately I’ve been feeling really sad about the fact that I can’t afford to rent my own place in LA and still be reasonably close to work. It got to the point where I’d get home from work every night and spend hours on Craigslist, getting more and more depressed as I scrolled through the apartments I couldn’t afford, or the shit-holes I could maybe afford, but only if I stretched my budget. I had dug myself pretty deep into a self-pity pit, doing nothing but complain about how much I hated my living situation, how depressed I was that I couldn’t afford to live alone.

On the full moon, I did a tarot reading that essentially told me I needed to shut the fuck up, stop feeling sorry for myself, and actually make an effort. Go out there and do shit! And since I’m stubborn but not that stubborn, I did just that.

With this newfound optimism and gung-ho attitude, it occurred to me that I really don’t have it that bad. My rent is reasonable for my area. I have my own bathroom, utilities are included in rent (I can run my AC all day and don’t have to pay extra?? Honestly a sick deal), we have a washer/dryer, I very rarely even see my roommates, and my drive to and from work is never longer than 30 minutes. For this city, that’s a lot of pros to check off on the ol’ pro/con list. Yeah, I wish I wasn’t 32 and living with roommates, but I could be a lot worse off.

And the thing is, my room is massive. It’s the master suite, and I swear it’s like the size of a 2 bedroom in Manhattan. But I wasn’t using any of it. I was just spending all my time sitting on the bed, or in the bed. I’d eat my dinner in bed, write in bed, watch TV in bed, play video games, everything in bed. There was a desk in the room, but I didn’t ever use it. Most of my room was just empty floor space.

So when I was veering toward “woe is me” about my living situation one night, I realized… I could do something with this! I have so much room at my command. I could probably even fit a couch in here. I could have a little sitting/TV area, and a separate bed area. And if I put in a slight modicum of effort, I could actually get another bookshelf and not just pile books on the floor like a feral beast. I could turn my big stupid useless depressing room into… a makeshift studio apartment!

So I took full advantage of Target’s Labor Day sale and got to work. I spent an entire morning and most of the afternoon rearranging, cleaning, assembling furniture, and shelving books… and I can’t even express how happy I am with the results.

This is mostly stuff I already owned — I only just bought the couch and a bookshelf — but I’ll be getting some side tables and an ottoman for the couch soon!

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All of a sudden, my bedroom is a tiny studio! It feels like a real home. All I had to do was move some shit around and shove a couch in here, and voila! The coziest it’s ever been. I can’t get over how happy I am about this. I was so low about my living situation, and now I feel a million times better. I’m renewed and refreshed.

Let this be a lesson to me: stop feeling sorry for yourself, Meg, and make the best of what you have. There are often solutions I don’t see at first because they seem too simple, but in this case, a compromise was exactly what I needed.

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vision playlist

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You know vision boards? It’s the idea that if you make a visual representation of all the things you want in life, those things will manifest in reality. Because of like, vibes and shit. What a load of nonsense, right??? Wrong. Fuck you. Vision boards are real.

You know what else is real? The vision playlist that I made today. I figure, if I listen to it enough and think about romantic love, it will manifest in my life. Cuz Tinder hasn’t worked so far.

To be completely serious though…! I am so over being bitter and jaded about love. I may be old, and I may have experienced failed relationships and a seemingly endless cascade of shitty men in dating contexts, but I refuse to give up on the notion of that dreamy, idealist soul mate shit. I refuse! Better a series of bitter disappointments than sitting around in acceptance of defeat for the rest of my life. So I made a playlist of songs that make me feel happy about love, and excited for it, and nostalgic — in a good way — for love I’ve had in the past.

I figure even if my soul mate never shows up at my doorstep, at least I’ll be putting good energy into the world. I’m okay with that!

Anyway, here it is on Spotify, if you want to listen. It is unapologetically cheesy and includes at least one track by Coldplay.

If you don’t have Spotify and are just dying to know what songs are making me happy-cry lately, here’s the track list (so far):

  1. Marble Halls – Enya
  2. Unchangeable Love – Through Juniper Vale
  3. goodnight n go – Ariana Grande
  4. pete davidson – Ariana Grande
  5. Ordinary Day – Vanessa Carlton
  6. Saturn – Sleeping at Last
  7. Favourite Colour – Carly Rae Jepsen
  8. So Far Away and So Near – Erutan
  9. I Don’t Wanna Grow Up – Bebe Rexha
  10. Us Against the World – Coldplay
  11. No Storms Come – The Innocence Mission
  12. A Thousand Years – Christina Perri
  13. I Will Always Return – Bryan Adams