Friendly Conversations: Uno

Like the new title? I figured new year means new language count for the Conversations! Here we go again:

On states of emergency
M: Can we change the channel? I don’t want to watch weather anymore
N: Well at this point, Snowpacolypse and Deflategate are our only options.
Me: That says a lot about society, doesn’t it.

On primping
Friend: You look so cute! Are you wearing makeup?
Me: Nah, just a little mineral powder and mascara. Oh, and I filled in my eyebrows. Oh and this new lip stain from Birchbox.
Friend: So… yes.

On coping


On text-tiquette
Me: Yeah, apparently he found our drunk texts annoying so basically I’m over it.
Mama B: Oh lord. If your father was that uptight about my drunk antics we would have divorced a long time ago.
Me: MOM.
Mama B: Remember when I invited the whole cruise table to your sister’s wedding? Still trying to get out of that one.

On coping (pt. 2)

On dating
Me: It’s like the Sopranos. He’s like my Feech La Manna.
Friend: … What?
Me: You know, “Didn’t I learn anything from Richie Aprile?”
Friend: … What?
Me: Like, I’m Tony, and The Child was Richie. You know, “nip it in the bud” and all.
Friend: … Girl if you are comparing your dating life to a mafia drama, we need to seriously reevaluate your priorities.


Quick Thoughts: The Ride

I love, love roller coasters. I don’t care if they’re fast, slow, wooden, metal, upside-down, crazy steep, stand up, legs dangling, whatever, I will go on any ride at least once. There’s this familiar routine that happens while waiting in line for the ride, one I know to a science following years of chasing that adrenaline high. First you’re bouncing with anticipation as you make your way closer to the gate, counting the groups ahead and trying to figure out how long it’ll be until you’re up. Then right before you’re seated, the bouncing turns from a general excited into an anxious excited, like you know it’s really about to happen, until finally you’re seated and the anxious energy starts turning into adrenaline coursing through your whole body, a rush of all types of feelings before you’ve even left the platform.

There’s the click, click, click of the ride as it makes its way higher and higher up the first big drop, and all of a sudden you’re shaking from everything, the excitement, the anticipation, the adrenaline; the ride hasn’t even really taken off yet and you’re already flushed with crazy energy, sitting still yet surrounded by movement. This is the part I always remember in a good ride: the way it feels in that brief moment of limbo before plunging into the main event.

In a moment yesterday I experienced the waiting in line, the bouncing anxiety to receive something I knew was coming, the drop in my stomach when I heard the ping of my inbox. I buckled up for the click, click, click of walking to have a conversation I’d been practicing for weeks, and then with just a few words, the cart tipped over the peak of the hill and I flew, headfirst, laughing as the wind danced next to me, into the end of an era and the beginning of a great unknown.

None of that makes any sense, I realize. But fear not: all will be explained in due time, friends. In the meantime, let’s just say next week holds a lot of big milestones in this Chronicle.


Right now it’s 3 in the morning, and I’ve been up for the past hour and a half. There’s no reason for my being so awake right now: I didn’t do anything crazy this weekend, aside from grocery shopping on Saturday night and a walk with my work buddy S on Sunday afternoon; I didn’t take any medicines that would disrupt my sleep pattern and frankly, I’m freaking tired. But for whatever reason, it’s 3 in the morning on Monday and I can’t fall back asleep. I may be a morning person, but this is clearly a little excessive. I mean, I rarely have insomnia like this. Restless sleep at times, sure, but I love sleeping, and I’m a crab if I haven’t gotten enough. So when things like this happen, I try to pinpoint what’s going on, either internally or externally, that’s clearly keeping my mind running fast away from sleep. That’s not always easy, as it frequently involves admitting a hard truth I’ve been trying to avoid for a period of time, but in this case, I know exactly what’s going on to keep me up.

There’s a tide of change in the air in my life right now, a long-coming shift away from something that hasn’t made me happy in, well, months. My lovely friend M and I were talking a lot about that this weekend, finding your own happiness in life. She made the point that our generation, the slightly-older millennials, aren’t just the self-important assholes the media wants us to be, living unemployed at home until our late twenties, begging our parents to pay our rent until we’ve “found ourselves.” Obviously those people exist, but for the people like M, like me, like most of our friends, we’re the generation that will find a way to work that makes us happy. We’re focused on our own well-being and standing out, making a name for ourselves doing something that no one else does, or at least doing something better than everyone else. Our generation is the one that will work in the corporate grind for however long until we’ve found a way to shape our lives in such a manner that we can wake up every day and not start grumbling immediately that it’s time to go back to the same old, same old.

There’s a comfort in the same old, same old. There’s a beauty in a routine, but an ugliness in doing what you’re “supposed to do,” in staying somewhere or with someone that hasn’t made you happy in months because it’s the “right thing to do.” I’ve gone through so many major changes in the past year, that I don’t even feel like the same person I was going into 2014. I look back on that girl and wonder that she was holding back so much of who I am now for so long, trying desperately to be someone that someone else wanted instead of embracing change and being who she wants to be. I had a moment recently where I was sitting with a decision to make, wrestling with it really, about whether to take a first step in making yet another big change after things finally seemed to be settling down. I went back and forth for a while, saying it was too soon, saying I didn’t even know if it was the right idea, trying to push myself back to enjoying the monotony that a part of my life had become. I finally stopped after two days of back-and-forth and just stared at myself in the mirror. “You’re not happy,” I told the confused girl looking back at me, “and you have the opportunity to do something better. How is this even a choice?”

It’s now 3:30 in the morning and I’m still wide awake. I’m waiting on the calm before the storm, the grace period that always precedes a a major shift in life. Who can say if the storm will be a spring shower or if it’ll mirror the snowpocolypse expected to hit New York this week; who can say if things will work out in such a manner that I look back a month from now and see another new person, one who has a smile on her face because she wants to, not because she’s forced to. There’s a lot of uncertainty going into this week, starting with a random night of insomnia. But I’m not going to concern myself with all of that quite yet. No, for right now, I’m going to shut down my computer, snuggle up with little miss a little closer, and hopefully, finally fall back asleep.

On Vinyasa, Backbends and My Eating Disorder


There are a few things I’ve been debating whether to share here or not for a very long time. While I’ve never actually censored myself from sharing a story, there are certain stories, certain parts of my history, that deserve to be told correctly, and I haven’t figured out how to tell all of them quite yet. There’s a story in particular I’ve been working on, but for a long time, I couldn’t find the right words to say everything, couldn’t find the best way to put the story out there in such a way that made me feel comfortable. Up until last week, when my anchor G and I were texting and the above words were exchanged. I read that part of the conversation over and over later that night, smiling at the truth to the words, and immediately got to work, finally inspired to tell the story now and tell it right. Before we start, however, there are a few things you need to know:

  • I have an Instagram account dedicated to yoga. Yes, I am one of *those* people. No, I will not tell you what it is. (Edit, 8/27/15: just reread this. Eventually I caved – follow me at @lbdoesyoga)
  • But OKAY SO GUYS, since I practice at home a lot, I need to film myself to check my alignment and posture. And sometimes I manage a really badass pose or I look really cute in those videos so I need a place to screenshot and share with the world. Duh.
  • The reason I have the account is to ensure I’m accountable to my goal of yoga every damn day. I can be harsh with myself very easily after a stressful or frustrating day, and I don’t want to use that as an excuse to get off the mat.
  • My goal is to do at least a little yoga every day so it becomes even more a part of my routine than it already is, no matter what. I don’t ever want the words “I used to do yoga” to come out of my mouth. Yoga has completely transformed me, mind, body, everything, and it’s the only thing that finally helped me escape the clutches of my true longest relationship.
  • Contrary to what I’ve said here in the past, my longest relationship was with my eating disorder.

Objectively speaking, I have always been a slim person, from childhood and even now. For years, I never gave food a second thought, a typical happy child who was more concerned with climbing trees than counting calories. Until the year I turned 15, when I went from someone who never gave food a second thought, to someone whose first, second, third thoughts and beyond were all about food. I spent ten years of my life exhausted from thinking about food almost all the time. I thought about how much I was eating, how many calories were in it, what foods were safe to ingest and what foods I could never touch again. I can still tell you how many calories (plus/minus 25) are in nearly any food item, and I can calculate how many I’ve eaten that day in under a minute. I spent ten years of my life fighting, and fighting, and fighting the little voice in my head that told me I wasn’t enough, I would never be enough, and even as I tried to walk away from the noise for the first, tenth, hundredth time, it always found me and forced me to listen. Having an eating disorder is like having a dragon hibernate within you; he gets high on anxiety and fear and laughs when you try and fight him with a wooden sword, feebly fending off his snarling insistence that everything is your fault, and it’s your fault because you’re fat.

My eating disorder was the toxic best friend that I couldn’t get rid of, the one who was only around in moments of weakness to distract me from the real issues by picking on my insecurities. It was the only way I knew how to cope with problems for years; I couldn’t fix a fighting family, I couldn’t fix the stress of applying, and then adjusting, to college, and I couldn’t fix a broken relationship, but I could dare myself not to eat anything for two days and I could consider making it that long without food “a success.” At 25, I tried to break the cycle by making the gym part of my routine, but a crazy work schedule and the fact that the closest gym is a mile from my apartment meant I wasn’t getting there as often as I would have liked, and I was still turning against food in times of trouble. Starting yoga was supposed to be an interim step, a simple, “easy” thing I could do at home on the days that I couldn’t make it to the gym. After all, yoga was “just a lot of stretching,” right? Certainly not anything that would shape my body and calm my mind like lifting weights and running did.

For lack of a better word, this fall was an absolute mindfuck. Work, personal things, family things, it was like a wild spiral of waves, good, bad, manageable, unbearable. It was all stress and bad days, the kind of wild adventure that used to put me curled into myself like a child on my bed, face stuffed in a pillow, screaming until I forgot that I was hungry. It wasn’t until a few weeks after things started to calm down, while looking back on the circles and spirals, that I realized for the first time in 10 years, despite all of the craziness, I hadn’t stopped eating to cope with an issue. I had, however, gotten on the mat at least once per week, forced myself to focus on my breath in times of stress and remembered to appreciate my body for the strong, powerful and capable thing that it is. After all, I can’t get into a headstand or flow through Sun Salutations if I haven’t taken care of my body on the most basic of levels. Unconsciously telling myself I would eventually pull out of the hole helped me push myself to eat each meal every day, and somehow, slowly, I managed to keep the dragon at bay. I mean, even writing that now is such a surreal experience. For the first time in a DECADE, I had actually managed to shoot down all thoughts of “you don’t need that” in favor of staying healthy. And honestly? I wouldn’t wish the journey to that moment of mental clarity on my worst enemy, but realizing I hadn’t turned to my old friend ann-oh-recks-ee-yuh in the worst of times was a pretty fucking incredible feeling.IMG_0823

This is the photo in question in my conversation with G above. I could tell you how I’ve been working on backbends to deepen my entire practice, write for days about my journey to pincha mayurasana, but I’m going to leave the yoga-nerd jargon off for now. I will say that looking at this picture makes me feel a lot of things. I still think I look too skinny, and then I’m incredulous that those words are still coming out of my mouth. I also think I look strong, and flexible, moreso than I’ve ever been in my life. And I feel so accomplished, because if you told me back in April when I first rolled out the mat on my living room floor that I would be able to do this pose with a semblance of ease, that I’m just about down in a full split and that my journey to handstand is well underway, I never would have believed that I could have come this far.

Much as I wish that this journey is something I’d never had to experience, I don’t fault 15 year old LB for making the decisions that she did. Anorexia is my dragon, and it’s my toxic former best friend, but that part of my life, my longest relationship, is a part of me, as much as my blue eyes and the scar on my leg. There is 10 years of damage to my body and my mind that I’ll never be able to erase; there’s a history I’ve written by my own choices and I can’t rewrite the past. But to look back, to ten months ago or ten years ago, and see tangible, real progress in so many aspects of my life is a pretty wonderful, very proud, and dare I say enlightening experience.

A letter and a request

Dear readers,

Two weeks from tomorrow will be the official one-year celebration of the Chronicle. WUT. I know. Pause for incredulity that it’s been that long, it’s only been that long and that I haven’t given up on writing about (/making) drunk mistakes. It’s crazy to go back and see how things in my life have evolved and continue evolving, and I am so grateful to everyone who reads, whether you’ve been following since the beginning or you stumbled upon this today.

In honor of 365 days of PLDs, I want to give you guys a chance to have a voice on here. So if you’ve ever had a burning question for me, here’s your chance to ask! Leave a comment here, send me an email (, tweet at me (@LBthe20whatev), send a carrier pigeon up to Washington Heights and hope for the best, whatever works. I’ll post the final Q&A during week of the anniversary and will do my best to answer every single one.

There’s a big post coming up later this week, so don’t forget to check back when you can. And thank you all again – truly, watching this place grow in 12 months has been one of the highlights of a very long year.



The Nickname Posse loves sending group emails that are something like 37% helpful and 63% useless jokes and conversation that probably doesn’t need to happen. Despite the fact that there are two couples who live together in the core group of 6, everyone responds to every email, meaning our chains frequently top 20 responses or more. This also applies to the group text, which is actually worse. Once I came back from a 45 minute work meeting to 30 texts. That is not an exaggeration and may actually be an underestimate. Personally I love reading the conversations, the silly jokes and irrelevant banter when trying to plan a night out or the upcoming Atlantic City trip, but not all of us appreciate these ridiculous conversations. In fact, almost every single Posse chat, regardless of medium, ends the same way: N finally gets sick of us and sends “Unsubscribe.”

This response has become a huge joke in the group, used in live conversations all the time, like when someone doesn’t want to take a shot of Patron or can’t keep listening to a conversation about America’s Next Top Model. Lately though, I keep thinking how convenient it would be to have an unsubscribe button for moments in life outside of Posse chats. The guy you met on New Year’s Eve is texting and wants to take you out? Unsubscribe. The office kitchen has leftover cheese and cookies during the week you stopped eating dairy and sugar again? Unsubscribe. Subway preachers? UNSUBSCRIBE. It’d be like an easy button for cynical people, giving you the option to remove the general frustration of dealing with people and tailoring your day in a way that makes you content. Sure, you can choose not to respond to the guy, not to eat the food, or to turn up your headphones to drown out “JESUS KNOWS YOUR SINS,” but simply removing the choice and distraction instead is such a delicious idea.

Maybe it’s the winter weather, but I am feeling particularly uninspired lately. Selective writer’s block means I’ve started at least 10 new drafts for posts in the past two weeks but haven’t figured out how to finish any of them. This morning I stared at the same food I’ve been eating all week in my fridge and could not get myself to make eggs for breakfast again. I tried to mix up my breakfast routine with a pumpkin muffin from Grey Dog but it made me feel sick, plus I threw half of it out because I found myself bored chewing it. Even in yoga this morning, I was holding a pose that I usually love, and before I’d reached five breaths I just sat on the ground and sighed. I’m not suffering from a lack of drama or interesting conversation topics in my life, and certainly given this is the Month of No, I should have all this free time to force inspiration by trying new things instead of finding myself glued to the couch ingesting hours of Netflix like a medicine, but I’m just in a funk and I can’t muster the enthusiasm to get out.

I have a three day weekend this weekend, as many of us do, and did manage to make a few plans – dance class on Saturday, my brother’s birthday/Sunday Funday/Football Funday celebration and yoga with my favorite instructor in between. Earlier this week I had this grand plan that in between those activities I would do nothing, take the time off to clean a little around the apartment and enjoy said Netflix. But as I started to convince myself today that I could “use a few days off,” it hit me that I just had two weeks off going into the New Year, and if I’m already telling myself I “deserve a break,” that’s a problem. I immediately went to the Interwebs and signed up for an inversion workshop on Valentine’s Day, hosted by my favorite Instagram yogi who’s traveling to NYC next month, something I’ve been putting off doing for nearly a week. It’s a small victory to motivation that I want to impress her, something to make sure I’m practicing regularly, and a potential first step in climbing back to my usual state of unfettered and idealistic optimism. Maybe it won’t keep me from continuing my Parks and Rec binge on Monday afternoon, and maybe it’s not the easy fix I’m telling myself it will be for this funk that I’m in. But if nothing else, it’s the first of hopefully many times this year that I look boredom straight in its uninspired eyes and simply say “Unsubscribe.”

The Month of “No”

I realized recently, as I’m rapidly approaching the end of my second year in this apartment, that this is the first time in my adult life I’ve managed to find some semblance of a routine. I’ve adjusted to my budget, created a schedule that (mostly) balances work and life, and I have my little rituals that make me happy, like yoga every morning and weekly food prep on Sundays. I mean sure, I’m still pretty broke most of the time, and much as I always intend to prep food on Sundays, sometimes that doesn’t happen till Monday. Or Tuesday. Or okay sometimes I forget to grocery shop and then blow the rest of my budget eating Seamless meals all week. But for the most part, at least, I’ve found a way to live comfortably in the life that just now looks to be settling down. This routine, and the new-found responsibility* (*appearance of responsibility), all fit nicely into a goal that my lovely friend M and I set for ourselves all the way back in 2014 (aka two weeks ago). January is officially the Month of “No.”

The last year has been one of the most enjoyable times in my life. I went to multiple concerts and festivals, planned last-minute mini-vacations and day trips outside the city; I’ve been to more crazy restaurants and bars and parties than probably the previous three years combined. I indulged my Free People obsession on way too many occasions and all-too-happily handed over cash at a few tattoo parlors. And I don’t regret a single dollar spent in this year. I started 2014 newly single, slowly expanding my group of friends, trying new scenes, taking what I thought I knew about the city so far out of my comfort zone that it forced me out of the shell I’d been in for so long, challenging me to be Someone, to be LB.  The routine of my last year was there was no routine. I could plan ahead by a few days, or maybe a few weeks, but anything after that just seemed ridiculous, like I wouldn’t know enough about my life in two months to commit to saving money for that hypothetical time when I’d really need it. Things continued on this path during the holidays, spending money with little more than reckless abandon, but only because I knew it was the last time I’d really be able to do so. So once the madness of New Year’s (e.g. the hangover) calmed down, I sat on my couch with a notebook and a calculator, and planned my budget for the next year.

When you’re still in school, you plan things by the semester, or even by the month. Things are so up in the air, they’re so variable at that age; you could choose to switch a class or take a weekend road trip on a whim and a daydream. In the early years of life on your own, budgets are more like “helpful suggestions,” since as long as you can pay the rent and bills on time, why not have a little fun while on your own for the first time in your life? It’s easy to say “Yes” to everything: Yes to going out two nights in a row, Yes to taking a cab home even though it’s not creepy-subway hours yet, Yes to buying that extra dress just because it’s on sale, Yes to peanut butter and frozen vegetables for a week just so you can buy that last-minute ticket at Webster. Yes feeds into FOMO, convincing you not to skip that happy hour just in case something great happens while you were being responsible. No is a scary concept, when you’ve spent so long trying to avoid it in favor of fun.

In order this year, I will have: Nickname Posse trip to Atlantic City, annual mama/Twinster Boston trip, 5-year college reunion, the annual 403 trip with my anchor G and my soul sister E, bachelorette parties/wedding showers for Twinster and my partner-in-crime R, plus oh ya know THEIR WEDDINGS. This is in between birthdays for everyone, spontaneous nights and roadtrips, weekends where at least one day I’ll eat nothing but Seamless food and one or two Free People indulgences. This year already has so many amazing things planned that I’m taking January, my one month with absolutely zero plans, to say “No.” No to nights out, No to spending money on things for myself that aren’t workout classes or essentials (e.g. coffee and wine), No to buying new yoga leggings even though they’re on crazy sale at Rue La La (which was the hardest thing I’ve had to do ALL YEAR). I need a month to save money, staying in on Saturdays to finish whatever’s on my Netflix queue and spending Sundays buying groceries and prepping food all week. It won’t last forever – my FOMO is pretty freaking strong – but for at least a few weeks, it’s a small step towards making me feel like a real adult.


This morning on the subway, there was someone making some really gross noises. Like, sniffling constantly, coughing into a jacket sleeve, loud nose-blowing and then trying to subtly put the tissue back in her purse before anyone noticed, kind of noises. It would be really fun if this story somehow turned into me making a friend, or making a snarky comment at said sick person, but as I’m sure you’ve surmised, that person is me. I’m using this public forum to apologize to anyone that’s been in a 10-foot radius of me in the past few days, because even if you were lucky enough to escape my germs, you certainly weren’t so lucky as to escape the noises. I’ve been fighting something since the weekend, basically surviving on lots of tea and Dayquil to keep me upright and (semi-)coherent, as I wasn’t about to call out sick from work in the first week of 2015. And yes, snot bubbles and Nyquil dreams is exactly how I envisioned starting the new year.

It’s inevitable in New York City that you’ll be sick at least once in the winter. We’re like sardines in this city, packing the subways, the sidewalks and the Starbucks to capacity constantly. Even if you’re careful to use hand sanitizer and take Emergen-C, you’re just plain not going to escape a winter cold. This now being my fifth winter here, I’ve pretty much learned that the best you can do once you feel that cold coming on is to stock up on drugs and wait it out – because even if the first cold doesn’t materialize, you can bet another one will be right behind it. I’m optimistically hoping this is my big “sick” this year, and that the rest of the season I’ll just be fighting some sniffles, but that remains to be seen: New York City winter viruses take no prisoners.

Things may be quiet here until I can fight my way through whatever’s wreaking havoc on my ability to breathe through my nose and stop accidentally coughing on strangers. Or maybe I’ll take a bunch of medicine and post something later, just to see what happens. Either way, consider this a friendly reminder to take your vitamin C and avoid the gross person on the subway for as long as possible.


“I just keep thinking about what it’s going to be like when it ends.”

About a month ago, I was sitting with my lovely friend M in her living room, full from our wonderful dinner in Nyack and talking about the next day. I had a first date in the afternoon in Williamsburg, and though I was calmly discussing it with M, internally I was freaking. the. fuck. out. She kept saying all these best friend things, as she started realizing how nervous I really was, like ‘You need to get out of your head and just enjoy it,’ and ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ She finally made a comment along the lines of ‘Hey, you never know what it could turn into,’ and I responded with the line above. M got very quiet after that, and I took a minute to curl my legs into my chest, staring at the floor, repeating the above mantra to myself, making sure my thoughts didn’t wander to the scary world of Maybes and I Wonders.

We were standing in her kitchen two days later, me rehashing all of the details from the brunch date that turned into the whole day and M cooking us dinner, per usual. Despite my best efforts to hide the fact that I really did have a great time, and I really couldn’t wait for the next one, M could tell that there was something different about me, different than any of the other random dates I’d forced myself to go on in the fall while getting over what happened with The Child. She made a joke about my having a plus one to T’s wedding in October, and my walls immediately went up; I started telling her there was no point in thinking about the future when it probably wouldn’t happen. I’ll never forget the way she looked at me after that: it was a mix of compassion and frustration, optimism and understanding, and she told me the words above had stuck with her since I’d said them that Saturday. “I get why you’re in that mindset,” she said, stirring the aromatic sauce on the stove, “especially after what you went through with The Child and all. But I don’t want you to think like that! Let yourself consider happiness instead of heartbreak. You never know what might happen.”

I’m not a guarded person. Well, correction. Up until recently, I’d never been a guarded person. I’m the girl that lives open and alive and obvious; I say I love you all the time and greet everyone with a hug. I trust easily and want to believe the best in people. It’s probably what set off everything as quickly as it did with The Child, as he came into my life with words that were bigger, sooner, more. I’ve noticed since all that fell apart that I won’t open up to new people, whether acquaintances, friends or dates. I’m quieter now, preferring to listen and figure things out in my own head; I’m not as quick to divulge details about anything, things as minor as apartment stories (#showergate14) and things as major as my last real relationship. I suppose it works against me, like people might think I don’t care or that I’m empty, but it’s not something I plan to change, at least not until I meet someone willing to give me the benefit of time and trust.

I hate believing in self-fulfilling prophecies, but as I predicted, the dates referenced above ended exactly as I thought they would: more fireworks, flashing just quickly enough to give me hope and then over just as quickly, leaving me exactly where I started. I won’t be telling M “I told you so,” though, much as the thought came into my head (/okay maybe I texted her that when it all went down). Owning the new parts of my personality that may be willing to talk about problems from high school, but unwilling to say what’s on my mind when all I can think is “You could be someone” is something I need to do for now. I have two resolutions for 2015, and only two resolutions this year. The first is just to believe in the possibility that there might be someone who inspires me to break down the tall, stone walls around me, and is willing to wait while I do. And the second is to know that I’m okay on my own, walls and all, whether that person exists for me or not.

Quick thoughts: I wear my…

Sunglasses inside. Not a joke. I’m literally sitting half dead on my couch wearing sunglasses and no shirt because the alternative is moving and experiencing excessive amounts of pain.

So my New Year’s Eve was a rousing success! I wore the hell out of a backless jumpsuit, only fell like six times in my tippy-tall heels and I think I kissed a stranger at midnight. Or maybe it was the Nickname Posse. Maybe both? Who knows, Jameson and Patron shots stole the specifics from me. PLDs were made and fun was had by all – couldn’t ask for a better way to start a new year that promises more crazy changes than ever before. I’m so excited to share this journey in the next 12 months and beyond with all of you.

Happy 2015 my lovely readers!