One time this happened...

The coffee-stained receipts from the drive-thru window on my kitchen counter are a harsh reminder that yes, I've spent the better part of my morning buying coffee and crying alone in my car because someone I kind of sort of considered a friend forgot my birthday. Again.

Sometimes after 2 am on a Tuesday my stomach starts talking in a voice that's almost a perfect imitation of a particularly grating aunt – you know, the one that means well but will drone on for 17 minutes about last month's water bill. At that point I get this gnawing urge, usually driven by some fleeting regret or misplaced insecurity, to pick up my phone and rattle off an update that is 97% mundane and 3% slightly cringeworthy details – for instance, I spent Sunday watching 4.5 hours of Korean variety shows with 1 cat and 0 productive tasks – only to immediately regret having hit send because 9.7 times out of 10 the next day it all feels like a desperate attempt to validate or at least appear somewhat present in this virtual echo chamber we've constructed for validation.

My mom somehow stumbled upon my browsing history from when I was 13 and decided to bring it up over lunch at a diner - the smell of greasy eggs and stale coffee still transports me back to the awkward afternoon of discovering she knew about all those Justinian forum posts and how 'caramel macchiato' was really a euphemism for something more...inexperienced.

My cat ate a whole jar of wasabi last night, but not before using his paws to create a makeshift sushi bar on the kitchen counter. He's got an aversion to cilantro, I swear.

Moments I'd rather forget involve the time I accidentally confessed my crush to the coffee shop manager during a heated debate about the perfect coffee-to-water ratio. I was mortified.

My therapist thinks I have an unusual attachment to used straws, so I've started collecting them in a mason jar under my bed – now I have 47 from last week alone.