Fools Rush In

I’m going to be completely honest. The only reason why I haven’t maintained this blog is because I’ve stopped expending my best efforts on finding ways to not work and just resigned myself to being an adult, working for my own money, paying my own bills, and investing in my career and personal pursuits. I’m not going to lie. It sucks. I kind of regret it every day. I feel the unbearable weight of guilt in my chest that I’m not out there putting in my time and finding a way to piggyback on someone else’s hard work. It is my absolute destiny to live as a lady who lunches, and it pains me that I’ve lost sight of that in my recent, accidental discovery of success in both my personal and professional life. I’m getting a promotion and graduating into a new career that will allow me to engage my mind and natural talents. I’m dating a guy who, after almost two months of honeymooning courtship, has yet to reveal himself as a flagrant douchebag or convicted sex offender. Am I now living the Bridget Jones sequel (Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, for those ignorant mooks among you)?

And, last but not least, I think I’m finally ready to become a mother. THAT’S RIGHT, FOLKS. I think it’s that time in my life. I feel the feels. Some women were born to be mothers, and I wholeheartedly believe that I am one of them.

Except that, since I don’t plan on reproducing, I want to adopt a dog. The Petfinder app is my new OKCupid (which is how I found my man, surprisingly—and he didn’t chop me up into confetti pieces on our first date! such a gentleman!). I’ve been brooding for months now, and because this is New York, you can’t go more than 2 city blocks without seeing a cutie petutie being dragged on a leash by some yuppie sociopath, because every dog owner in New York is an asshole for one reason or other. I look on at them with longing, with knowing that I can be a better dog-mom, and that yes, I will likely be one of those crazies caricatured by Amy Schumer’s Doggy Daycare sketch.

New York City’s pet owners are an elite, highly fucked-up tribe of movers and shakers who spend their money on things that don’t even matter, like burlap panties because they’re organic and/or sustainable (because the new boutique retailer in Williamsburg says so). And I want to join their ranks. I justify this life change with one single truth: I will never be a bougie bitch in NYC without a rat-dog on a pink leash plus animal carrier slung over my person…and a wide-brimmed hat. With cat-eyed sunglasses. This is the lifestyle I aspire to. This is what it will take.

On a less superficial level, I just want a partner in crime. I want something to love and to squeeze to oblivion. I want something that won’t judge me as a moral, sentient being and that loves me unconditionally. I want something that will volunteer for infinite selfies, thereby helping inflate my Instagram and Twitter followings. I want a storybook hipster romance, as advertised by Purina Puppy Chow via BuzzFeed.

Just tell me if that’s too much to ask.

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