there i was, minding my own nosy business, as i clandestinely stalked the pinterest boards of all the fabulous, more interesting and creative than me, people in my life; pining for the pretty, and re-pinning from a place where i hoped i’d appear just as glossy and east-coast fetching as the air-brushed, retouched photos on my 100% plagiarized boards.

i mean isn’t that what the fourth of july is all about?

my holiday quadrupled in happy when i received, in the form of a baby, red thumb tack, notification that i had acquired a new friend follower.

although i’m flattered for the “follow,” i was unpleasantly surprised with ms. disorders’ couture and home design boards  for stealing re-pinning.

no breathtaking vogue editorials from the 70’s, or creepy yohji yamamoto uniforms.

typically batshit crazy comes with great fashion sense:

exhibit A ⬆: my forray into vintage, trans-continental dressing began at an early age….and some would agree so should have my prescription medication use.

alas, psychological disorders lacked in the pinspiration department should i need her/him to occasion out the perfect ensemble for cocktails with the girls.

but i did fall in love with this:

a serenade for my eyes and mind.

funny. it was just this morning i was talking with aunt charla about the useless, unnecessary epidemic sweeping society of wearing one’s wrongs like they’re a badge of honor.

yes, it’s great to learn, grow, and move on from past hurts, traumas and transgressions, but many of us have such a hard time with the “moving on” component.

i am just as guilty of this as the next person, and nothing puts me in a crappier mood than when i realize i’m behaving from a place of pain from yesteryear.

i’m not special, i’m not unique. i’m not the only person who has ever been hurt, abused, assaulted, lied to, or cheated.

my sadness, past or present, doesn’t give me permission to be a bad wife, colleague, friend or daughter.

i don’t know if it’s all of the self-help oozing out of the internet {twitter, facebook, self-righteous blogs,} or that everyone and their dog has a therapist…{true story when i was a kid we took my cat to a psychologist-she diagnosed “jenny” with a bladder infection,} but enough with the “stories.”

everyone has a story. the story is boring.

it’s what you DO with that story that makes it interesting.

seriously? how can i feel depressed? “yoga-boobs” follows me on twitter.

weekend happy to you m’loves.

wishing you a life outside “the story.”

see you on the other side of monday.