At some point in my life, I apparently looked around at my full-time job, relationship, house, family, dog, cooking, cleaning, laundry, bills, projects, and the approximately 47 tabs permanently open in my brain and thought: You know what I need? A fucking blog.

I don't even know how to start this. I've sat here staring at my computer, trying to figure out how to write something that I've barely been able to say out loud without crying.

I don't just love. I over-love. I don't just spend. I overspend. I don't just eat. I overeat. And sometimes, the hardest person to control in my life is myself.

Listen. I am a firm believer that if you can't openly discuss your bowel movements with your boyfriend, your best friend, your mother, and several hundred strangers on the internet, then what the hell kind of relationships are you even maintaining?!

Because apparently, being myself wasn't chaotic enough. Now I want to learn how to professionally edit the chaos.

Ladies, have you ever fallen so ridiculously in love with a man that you accidentally enrolled yourself in approximately 47 extracurricular activities you never signed up for?

Listen, I don't know who originally decided to combine beer and cheese into a soup, but whoever they were deserves a national holiday, a parade, and possibly a statue.

What is something you do when you're alone that you would absolutely DIE if another human being witnessed?

Well, it's Monday again, which means it's time for another installment of "What the fuck are we eating this week?" I don't know who decided that human beings need three meals a day, seven days a week, for their ENTIRE FUCKING LIVES, but I'd like to have a word with them. Seriously. We just ate yesterday. Why are we doing this again? Here at Morgan Mile Manor, I've once again put together a menu that would suggest we're feeding a family of twelve instead of two adults and a G

The other night, while lying on Jet's chest, I asked him what I thought was a perfectly normal, romantic question. "Babe, what would be your ideal date?"

I don't know who decided to shove taco meat inside giant pasta shells, but whoever you are, I hope your pillow is always cold and you never step in something wet while wearing socks.

Can we talk about Costco for a minute? Because I have some questions, concerns, and possibly a developing anger management issue.

This might be one of the most vulnerable things I've ever written. But maybe it's time we talked about the things we spend our entire lives trying to hide. I'm fat.

There is something about growing up in the 80s and 90s that I don't think any generation after us will ever fully understand.

But yesterday, I needed help. And something happened that probably wouldn't seem extraordinary to someone who's always been loved properly.

I have a confession. I am currently in several toxic relationships. No, not with people. With household objects.

Twenty-something-year-old me thought a weekend was wasted if I didn’t put on something mildly inappropriate, drink something neon-colored, flirt with someone I had absolutely no business flirting with, and stay out until an hour when respectable people were waking up to go fishing.

Because apparently we are responsible adults who must decide what the hell to eat EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Nobody warned me adulthood was 40% laundry and 60% figuring out dinner.