I have measured out my life in Popsicle sticks.

It's mid-July. I've been 27 for two weeks.

What have the late 20s been like so far? Well.

You make buffalo chicken dip for the office potluck even though there will be too much food (there's always too much food) mostly so the other ladies in the office won't give you a side eye.

You line up your shoes in the shelves where they belong instead of lying in doorways where Hurricane Andrea disposed of them like fallen trees before blowing out the door, late to work, because tripping of them will only slow down the hurricane and make it angry.

You're still working on your punctuality. You'll always be working on your punctuality.

You buy bright pink lip balm. You think you look ridiculous but a controlled kind of ridiculous, like the temporary tattoos you used to doodle on your arms with a Sharpie when you were 13 and wanted something permanent that you could regret. You never got those tattoos, but you embarrass yourself by taking photos of yourself in public to make up for it.

It's not all buffalo chicken dip and lip balm, pals. Some of the not-so-good stuff that have been hanging around for years are still there, like outdated clothes meant to be dropped off at the Goodwill that eventually make their way back to your closet. You only really make your bed in the winter or when you know someone is going to see it. You cover your chin whenever possible because chins are to you what necks were to the late great Nora Ephron. You know it's not healthy to listen in on other people's first dates in coffee shops rather than going on ones of your own but my god, this guy is never going to get laid if he keeps talking about how awkward the date is going as it's happening.

Each week, a new article becomes the essay the internet can't stop talking about, and lately they've been ones that give me a mild anxiety akin to five cups of coffee. If it's not the usual topics (marriage, kids, and Having It All), it's about the how the youth are in financial ruin, how friendships after 30 turn to dust, or how having a cat makes you crazy. I'm thankful though that I'm not where I was five years ago or so, where it would have pushed me into 10 cups of coffee anxiety. I can take whatever worries the world throws at me and I think that means I'm happy. Or I'm happy because I can take the world's throws? I don't know, but I think I'm okay.

If this was a made-for-TV romantic comedy, I'd end this with something like Just because I haven't fallen in love doesn't mean I haven't tripped over it. I can practically hear Jennifer Love Hewitt saying that. Instead, I'll just leave you with this: I don't have the answers, I just have myself.

And I ask is for Lifetime to let me play myself in She Rolled Hey Eyes At It All: The Andrea Disaster Story. If Joan and Melissa can play themselves, anyone can.

Midyear Resolutions, 2012

• Accept that three cups of coffee does not make a meal (even if it's with cream).
• Watch new things on Netflix instead of the same episodes of Downton Abbey and Parks & Rec over and over (no, Dawson's Creek doesn't count when you watched it years ago).
• Don't take off necklaces and leave them in hidden places around the apartment instead of on the necklace tree where they belong (though it's fun when finding one in a drawer or tucked in the back of the medicine cabinet to yell out "JEWELRY SURPRISE!")
• Stop inflicting secondhand embarrassment on people with stupid single lady anecdotes (e.g. JEWELRY SURPRISE). This especially includes awful work stories (no one cares) and accolades of how much you love your cat (no one really cares, please stop, dear god).
• Realize that going up to people in bars and drunkenly introducing yourself just because you've "seen them around the neighborhood" is not the way to make friends/boyfriends/acquaintances (despite the fact that you are a very charming).
• Drink more water, put on sunscreen, go to bed earlier (I mean, duh, don't be dumb, take care of yourself).

I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger

This morning, half the grand steps in front of the Carnegie Library were blocked off by yellow caution tape. Two men worked, bent over cement equipment. They both wore white t-shirts and deep tans. It wasn't even noon and the heat hung heavy on the shadeless steps.

A mother with young children stopped for a few moments to watch. The toddler, a boy, was especially interested in what was happening. The baby on her hip yawned.

"You do well in school and go to college so you won't end up doing what I do, okay?" said one of the men to the little boy. The man wiped his forehead and chuckled a bit, the kind of laugh that's meant to make serious statements light hearted. His voice was the sound of a thousand cigarettes.

"Hard work," said the mother. "Hard, hard work."

Seems I never get enough of me

Five years ago, I started this stupid blog under an even stupider name on the last day of April. Less than a week later, I graduated college, packed up my dorm, and boomeranged into my parents' basement. At the time, I was jobless, moneyless, and directionless. Right now, I have a job, a little bit of money, and some occasional sense of direction that changes depending on what I read on the Internet that day.

Am I happy? I guess so. I'm not unhappy. I wish I could save a decent amount of money, but I'm much better with my finances than I used to be. I'd like to strike a nice balance between being impulsive and being rational. I've been told I obsess over the little things and underestimate the big ones. Everytime I start talking or thinking about where I am in life, the dumb optimist side kicks in and ends it with a hearty "It could always be worse!", so I guess I'm doing okay.

There are more than 650 posts on this site. A lot of them are crap. I'm not at the point in my life where I can read them without cringing, but I'm glad I still have them for when I don't find myself so embarrassing.

What I've written on here varies widely from one post to another. I don't follow a schedule and post erratically. I know of blogs that started around the same time as mine that grew to be very, very popular. Some of them are still around. Others aren't. They disappeared slowly, like smoke, becoming private or invite only. But this fossil's still around, for now at least.

Here's a few entries that don't make me choke:

The time I dented my mother's car on Christmas

Remember when I encountered a bear while house sitting?

Like many words, 'new' has many different meanings

How I spend my Sundays

My sweaty, sorry, soul-shaking, slap-me-in-the-face-because-I-need-it 25th birthday

I know more about Star Wars than most West Virginians

An ode to a now-closed cupcake shop 

Despite this dumb website and its purpose for keeping track of memories, I've recently started journaling again for the first time in years. I've been depending on what I write here to keep track of things, but to be honest, I'd rather keep most my observations and day-to-day blahblahblahs on paper the old fashioned way. I forgot how nice it can be to scribble things down, even when my hand cramps.

A city with no children in it

 It's a Saturday afternoon in mid-May and the park is empty.

No screaming, no running, no jumping, no joking, no laughing, no crying, no swinging, no singing, no fun. The trees are the only ones making shadows on the playground. One fell apart on the slide. The puddle of dirty water and broken branches are evidence that this mess has been sitting here for some time.

After a while, two teenagers come by and play basketball. Their dribbles are too faint to fill the silence and echo faintly, tiny in comparison in the space that they need to fill.

A man pulls in driving a gold sedan. There's a wheelchair on his license plate. He opens the car door and sits for a long while with his feet on the ground, looking down, as if he has to think about each step before moving forward. Slowly, he leaves the car, holding on to it for support, unsteadily but with a purpose. He holds a bottle of water in one hand and a napkin in the other, wiping off marks on his car invisible to everyone else's eyes. It shines even in the shade.