my not-pretty or very compelling existence, if you're at all concerned.

The Forsythias have bloomed already.  The ones in our front yard.  The ones growing on the median strips that I drive past to and from work.  (By the way, I had to Google "road divider thing" to remember what a median strip is called.)

Every year of my life seems to pass me by faster than the last.  Like one of those Gravitron carnival rides that I love but everyone else hates because it makes them feel like they're going to throw up or die.  I don't know.  I guess a ride just isn't really worth it to me unless it seems probable that there's some chance I might die.  Something to do with my childhood, probably.  But anyway, it's like the Gravitron - life.  Moving slowly at first, you stand in youthful anticipation of what's next.  Suddenly, you're spinning so quickly that you can't focus on anything specific other than your complete paralysis and trying to manage your panic as you wonder to yourself, When are we going to slow down so I can be one of those people who regularly cleans out the fridge?

At this point, it seems like never.  Not that my life is even that busy.  I just work full-time.  There's art class on Tuesday nights.  Scouts and bowling league Wednesday night.  And other things.  I swear there are other things but I can't really think of them right now.  All I can really think about is how I was supposed to get my hair done last Saturday but I went out of town.  And now I can't get an appointment.  And I've gotten really tired of the high-maintenance side of my head.  I am not high-maintenance, but bleach-damaged hair, as it turns out, is.  I've been pretending to be for months and it's been exhausting.  Special shampoos, deep moisturizers, leave-in conditioners, round brushing.  Good grief.

Also, oil cleansing, as it turns out, is not for me.  It works for other girls I see on blogs and instagram accounts much shinier and more aesthetically-pleasing than mine, but not for me. Every morning I woke up there was another undergrounder on my chin to greet me.  The ideal way to start the day, clearly.  So I finally buckled, like the strung-out user that I am.  I went back to the mall 20 minutes south that has the vending machine with a huge picture of Adam Levine on it and the chemical-ridden face product which, from what I can tell, is the only thing in the world capable of keeping my face looking like a face and not a pizza.

It's weird how pizza can be so delicious and so disgusting, depending on the situation.

"I love Proactive.  I use it everyday."  That's what Adam Levine says.  Or, at least, what the Proactive vending machine at Provo Towne Centre says Adam Levine says.

That guy is everywhere.

I always think to myself, there's no way that person who spends more on their car than all my earthly possessions combined actually uses product you can buy in vending machines or in the cosmetics isle at Wal Mart.  Like, Tina Fey and Garnier?  I somehow have trouble believing this.  But they can't just lie in commercials anymore, can they?  I mean, it's 2015, not 1950.  Since then, Martin Luther King solved all racism, forever, period, and there are a billion more lawyers so commercials can't lie anymore, right?  Is it something like the celebrities just have to use it every day for three days, and then they can legally say, "I use it every day" without getting sued?  Has Adam Levine ever even HAD a zit?  I'm not buying it.


Except, okay, I did buy it.  The Proactive.  Also, some really greasy and insanely delicious lo mein from the obligatory Japanese restaurant in the food court, which I ate while driving one-handed past the Forsythias on the median strips which probably isn't safe.  Which most likely looked ridiculous to anyone who happened to glance over.  Which may or may not help with the zits.  But sometimes chemicals and fattening foods are just reality right now.