I spend many nights alone, drinking entire bottles of cheap, red wine and watching hours of British panel shows. Frequently, I'll find my hand in a bag of shredded sharp cheddar cheese or a jar of Nutella. On adventurous nights, I'll stumble outside with my headphones and take a walk while listening to some terrifically depressing artist like Coldplay or Glen Hansard. I'll feel incredibly introspective, although what is really running through my head is, don't run into that tree don'tlookdrunk don't fall over ohshit i've been walking ona diagonal this whole time.

More often than not, however, my evening will bewilderingly end with me chugging a glass of water while simultaneously sobbing my eyes out, a strangely cyclical process that I think could be a helpful real-life diorama to teach small children about the water cycle. Except I suppose the resonance of the diorama would be lost on most small children, who hopefully have no experience with the ridiculous emotional turmoil that follows a night of drinking heavily. Anyway, apart from its possibly educational value, I only share this disgusting, pathetic moment with with you because drunk and dehydrated is the only time that I ever feel like I want a boyfriend.

If I see couples holding hands, I just think about how sweaty my palms get and about how holding hands always feels like an obligation. What if you're holding hands in a grocery store buying something cute and couple-y like a baguette, and you want to veer suddenly and surreptitiously down the candy aisle to see if this Dominick's has the Reese's peanut butter cup chocolate bars (CVS on Broadway and Granville CHECK IT OUT) but you can't because you're attached to another human being?

If I see couples canoodling on the El, I just think about how glad I am that I can sit quietly and read my book, which I know pleases me while at the same time doesn't disturb anyone else. This is surely a better situation than feeling obligated to return someone else's affection in equal part, hoping you're making them just as happy as they're making you but not more so, at the same time that you feel guilty for making other people watch this negotiation. Or, heaven forbid, be so obliviously in love that you don't even notice the other people around you getting increasingly disgusted with your low, sweet murmurs and soft caresses. I firmly believe that there is an unspoken contract on the El that everyone will be mutually annoyed, and those who laugh too loudly and smile too much are in breach of said contract and deserve to be punished.

If I see an old couple sitting in silence over their yellowy-white breakfast at a busy diner, I just think about -- well, I don't even need to continue with that one. We all pretend to think it's cute, when really we all pity them, which is a bit ridiculous, especially for those people who are coupled themselves. Pity is an emotion that comes when you look at a person or a situation from which you feel removed. And for couples, if they've really committed, feeling removed from a future situation where, after thirty-five years of marriage, you sit across from your partner and have nothing to say is just fooling yourself. So, while we all may say "aww" and scoot ourselves a little closer to whomever we're with, what we're really thinking is "thank god, that'll never be us." Sorry. It will be. Which is why when I see an old couple, I have an overwhelming urge to cut all romantic ties and live as a hermit in the moors of England.

But, for whatever reason, when I'm under the faint twinkly lights in my bedroom, empty wine bottle on the floor and a pile of Hugs wrappers as a pillow, I clutch at my aching heart and wonder why there's not a pair of broad shoulders with strong forearms (in my wildest fantasies, these shoulders and arms would be attached to a person, a man, who has a quiet sense of humor and a love for 8 out of 10 Cats) stroking my hair and telling me I'm pretty and worthwhile. Is this some deep seeded need that I've spent years repressing, dredged up by the ever-revealing alcohol? Or is it just silly histrionics that I enjoy playing out because I've seen too many romantic comedies? 

Maybe I just need to drink more water.

This morning, I forgot my umbrella.

Actually, I should redact two elements of that statement, as I suppose filling one's blog with lies so early on in the process is a slippery slope. Firstly, I did not forget exactly, as I never intended to grab an umbrella in the first place. I didn't even realize it was raining. Secondly, I don't own an umbrella. But saying "This morning, I forgot my raincoat" is so unromantic. There's nothing exciting about a raincoat; it is, in fact, just a regular coat made out of a different material. An umbrella is a whole, delightfully indulgent apparatus whose only function is to keep water off of your head and torso and dump it directly onto your knees. (It also provides you with a five foot radius of personal space that your enemies, or indeed complete strangers, cannot penetrate without getting their eye poked. Very useful for high level spies, or for those of us who were rudely forced to leave our beds even though we were having a very lovely dream about a certain British comedian and are a bit grumpy now, thank you very much.)

Anyway, I was upset that I had forgotten my wearable umbrella (nailed it) this morning not because I don't enjoy the rain, but because it puts me in the class of people who are unprepared. I am not, for the record, an unprepared person. I check the weather daily, and dress accordingly. Upon exiting public transportation, I make sure I have already studied the route I need to take, having noted important landmarks (if you start walking towards Binny's Beverage Depot, no matter how tempting it is, you are going in the wrong direction). I order GrubHub while running on the treadmill at the gym, to ensure that it will arrive at my house at the same time I do after my workout. (This both puts me in the class of prepared people, and the class of people who are total losers.)

However, nature is the prepared person's mortal enemy. Having been foiled by the hourly forecast upon which I rely too heavily, I quickly started pretending that I had forgotten any sort of rain-related accoutrements on purpose. I walked through the early morning drizzle with a carefree confidence, looking up at the sky and smiling slightly as if to say, "I'm so glad that I purposefully planned to get wet; what a perfect way to start the day!" When the few other sopping people on the street would look to me with their miserable faces, as if to acknowledge our mutual place in the brotherhood of the unprepared, I averted my gaze and tried even harder to look like I had purposefully decided to eschew umbrella and raincoat, perhaps for a more spiritual connection to Mother Earth. I am on a higher plane than you unprepared idiots. In fact, I am even on a higher plane than you people who did prepare; I do not trouble myself with such trifling details such as weather. I am above weather. In the end, I think instead of achieving the look of someone on a different plane, I merely looked like I was on a different planet. One where it is perfectly normal to bound through the streets, grinning like an idiot and looking wistfully at the grey, dripping sky. Perhaps the businessmen and women of downtown Chicago thought that I was signalling to some high-flying UFO that I was ready to return home; most likely, they didn't notice me or give a shit about what I was doing.

To be fair, pretending to enjoy being caught in the rain wasn't that difficult for me, as I genuinely enjoy days like today: monochrome and spitty. I can almost hear the collective sigh from my nonexistent readers (what would that sound like?). Good god, another faux-artistic twenty-some-year old who waxes rhapsodical about the beauty and mystery in thunderstorms? I can just see her now, red Hunter boots and a bright yellow, vintage raincoat, giggling as she splashes in the somehow perfectly azure puddles in the somehow garbage-free city street. Or snuggled up in a men's sweater, nicked from some terribly gifted painter boyfriend whose Warby Parker bespectacled soul just couldn't give her what she needed, writing bad poetry and sipping on some kind of fruity tea with multiple names while gazing out the window at the steady stream of rain. 

I will not lie, I'm a little bit that girl, minus the killer fashion sense and the string of cute, artistic boyfriends. However, the true reason I love rainy days is that they instantly lower expectations. When it is a beautiful 70 degree day with a perfect sun, so perfect that you can almost see its stupid little grin and its fucking adorable sunglasses that shield its nonexistent eyes from itself (a completely befuddling image that continually pops up in children's books and advertisements designed by the Florida Tourism Board), you have to match its perfection. Those are the days that people expect you, and you expect yourself, to get things done. Take a walk or maybe even a run, assemble a picnic basket for a perfect afternoon with friends or if nothing else, get those pesky errands done that you've been putting off for weeks! The good weather stands in for your mother, forcing you out of bed at a decent hour (oh the horror) and passive aggressively reminding you to fix your life, to call that guy about that job, to find a boyfriend, to lose some weight.

A rainy day, however, is your friend. All that is required of you on a rainy day is to snuggle and drink tea. If you do anything beyond that, it is a victory. Because the expectations are low, I always get more done, although I suppose you could argue that because the expectations are low, I just think that I'm getting more done. And I would tell you to shut up, this isn't the Matrix, and I don't need to have some existential crisis about what is perceived reality and what is reality. Even if I don't get more done, the not getting anything done feels better.

And just look at me now! I managed to get out of bed, go to work and write this blog post! I'm like Superman, Albert Einstein and Jane Austen rolled into one, slightly damp person. Just don't ask me to do anything else, 'cos I'm pretty tired now, and I have to get down to some serious rainy day snuggling.

I'm sure there's some unwritten rule of blogging (actually, considering the medium, it is mostly likely a written rule) that one should never start a blog when one is feeling utterly defeated and uninspired. Yet, here I am, on a defeating and uninspiring Wednesday morning, slowly typing out my thoughts on this terrifyingly long page. I realize that the the size of the page is dictated and therefore contained by the finite size of my computer monitor, but it seems never-ending, and the white of the blank screen is making me go a little cross-eyed. The most distracting thing about a white computer screen is that it's not truly white; it is not the absence of color, but rather thousands of small square boxes that flicker in tinges of green and purple. The bright light also draws attention to all those strange, translucent bits of things that float in front of, or rather on, your eyeball. When I was younger, I used to think that they were atoms, and that I possessed the unique but seemingly useless ability to see them. When they meandered across my line of vision, I was reminded of how special I was, whereas now they are merely an annoying reminder of my ordinariness. It does not raise me to the god-like status of being able to see that which cannot be seen, but rather grounds me firmly in the world of mere mortals who blink and get dust in their eyes.

So, with crossed and dusty eyes, I begin my first blog post. I'm not sure if one is supposed to outline one's "blog goals" in the first post, but unfortunately I have no cutesy theme or challenge to guide me. This is merely my desperate attempt to have some sort of artistic outlet, some way of holding onto the intelligence and creativity that I feel slipping through my fingers with every second I spend watching "Dancing with the Stars" or drinking until everything gets pleasingly warm and fuzzy. This will be my dumping ground for my thoughts, complaints, delights, observations, rants, whines, rambles, accomplishments, decomplishments, to-do lists and to-never-do-again lists. And when I say dumping ground, I mean that quite literally, as most of this will most likely be garbage. But hey, some people find garbage pleasing, or at least interesting, and perhaps there will be some scraps of once-great or future-great ideas. If nothing else, this is something concrete that I can do for myself so that I'll stop googling "can people become stupid" and "how to avoid stupidity" (don't bother -- there's no good advice). Maybe years from now, when I'm snuggled on some expensively comfortable couch, drinking a glass of red wine after spending the day at my job as something-fulfilling-and-challenging-and-useful-to-the-world, I'll find the worries of my twenty-three-year old self adorably quaint, though I'll find the writing style embarrassingly clumsy. I may even patronize my younger self by laughingly reading the most ridiculous sections to my boyfriend/girlfriend/friend/cat/empty apartment (who are we kidding). I will find incredible comfort in the distance, both in years and in lifestyle and temperament, from my younger self, and my (hopefully fabulous) life will seem even better in the comparison.