Butters, The Tiny Pig & The Wonderful World Of Vegetables

For as long as I can remember, it has always been a toss up between getting a guinea pig or getting a rabbit. I’ve always had an affinity towards small, furry creatures. I came across many rabbits, timid piggies, and tiny bunnies with funny hairstyles, but none of them really caught my attention the way that Butters did. Have you ever watched a rom com where the girl doesn’t like the guy at first, so she walks away, but towards the end of the movie they end up falling madly in love with each other? When I found Butters tucked away in the corner of her 30 by 36 inch cage, nestled under hay and messy, with specs of food dispersed all over her muzzle- I walked away, unsure of myself of whether I could take care of another animal because at the time, I already had two dogs to take care of on my own.

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The Bitter Cucumber & The Curse Of Curcurbitacin

This is an odd blog. It definitely has a different voice to it from when I first started four years ago, sans Instagram. I was alot more anxious, worried about pretty words and if my passages came off mysterious and descriptive enough. Now I’m alot more relaxed about what I write and today I choose to complain to you all about the bitterness of cucumbers. An odd mix in the thrall of tough love topics I have in my files waiting for you to read after this. I’ve often come to a frustrating conclusion as to why I end up with a bitter cucumber. Or cucumber(s) as they are often on sale at my superbly overpriced organic store, 3 for 99 cents. “What a steal!” I whisper under my breath, after taking a swift glance at the coupon section of the grocery newspaper. Okay I don’t actually say that but the thought has crossed my mind a few times every time I spot a bargain. So… I look at grocery newspapers. I’m quite the frugal person, as extra as I am with my pets for those that have known me for some time on Instagram.

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The Girl Who Lived

As I sit here lounging in my cotton underwear and unreasonably XXL T-shirt sans bra, I held on to Butters while she wheeked softly. Across the bed, Peaches sprawled belly up, fast asleep. I stare deeply at the blank screen of my computer tonight, wondering how I should write this without coming off as “different.” Because that’s how I’ve felt my whole life. Out of place, out of rhythm, out of rhyme. I struggle to type out the words that are just on the tips of my tongue. They’ve been waiting to translate themselves into typed out letters via the use of my fingers yet no words ever seem good enough to describe what I’ve dealt with for most of my life.

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Insecurities and Beauty Standards

Growing up, I was raised by my mother and grandmother who had two different views of beauty. My mother, who had fully embraced what was beautiful in America and my grams, who held on tightly to the reigns of culture and past.

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Vive La Tarte At A Glance

Vive la Tarte is a bustling little bakery shop hidden around the corner of our hotel that I went into after a night of strolling through the streets of San Fransisco at 2am in the morning. It is a beautiful open space with high ceilings that exude a modern, hipster feel. Most restaurants these days are geared toward “Instagram friendly,” vibes, meaning they are all about aesthetics and foods that look too good to eat, and Vive la Tarte hit that mark the moment I stepped in. It was busy at 10 am in the morning, full of customers hanging out on the steps like high school kids waiting around for next period or sitting a top flat bed type seats with cafeteria style tables. The seating was comfortable  to uphold a conversation with my friend, but I could definitely hear the other conversations next to me if I didn’t pay attention.

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