Anyone Else Feel Like Their Life is Low-key Falling Apart?

Aloha Pussycats,

It has been a hot minute since we've caught up.

Currently, I'm laying on my unmade bed, wrapped in a scraggly, eggplant colored towel from my Freshman year of college that has seen better days. My hair is in a floppy bun, and I am accidentally soaking my bed sheets from the water droplets that were still on my back because I'm terrible at properly drying myself off from my showers (I'm def an adult).

I'm trying to absorb all of the me-time I can get before I move back in with roommates this Saturday, which is a decision I am 90% super happy and excited about. It is, however, undeniable that there are certain things I will miss about living completely alone – mainly that I will probably have to cut down the super loud crying, me belting 2010 Justin Bieber ditties, and the nudist habits I've developed this past year.

I'm encroaching on my 3rd anniversary of living in New York and I have to say I feel a bit weird. Never in my life have I felt two completely opposite ways about myself. On one hand, for the first time ever, I feel like I'm running towards myself, into my very own arms. I'm running in slow motion on a sunset soaked white beach in a corny but low-key beautiful moment of self-love, self-acceptance, and self-realization. This has a lot to do with me being in therapy for over a year. Unpacking my actions and the motivation behind them has really helped me feel close to myself. I realize now the root of a lot of my issues and I can catch myself in unhealthy thought patterns and behaviors.

But on the other hand, there are still days where I feel like I couldn't be running away from myself any faster. My actions feel foreign, my emotions feel stronger than my rational thoughts and I can't crack certain issues that seem to persist such as my anxiety and temper. I feel like my internal self-hatred has manifested into Godzilla, slowly rising from the water, but then leading to a lot of destruction and emotional chaos. I've been having issues with self-control, and short bursts of sobbing at the drop of a hat, luckily I haven't developed any SUPER unhealthy coping mechanisms, however, it's terrifying when you feel like you don't understand yourself.  

I'm going to cut it to you so straight, last month had been DISASTROUS for me. Work trouble, friend trouble, love trouble, health problems and so on. In my darkest days, after my tear tank ran empty and my antibiotics made me feel queasy, I def turned into the black diablo sauce packet from Taco Bell and was SPICY to everyone. This is something I'm really sad and disappointed with myself about. I know a lot of issues were out of my control and I shouldn't beat myself up too much for getting depressed and "extra" but I just felt so out of control about everything.

It's the least original thought ever to say that I'm terrified of the unknown. The uncertainty of my career, ESPECIALLY considering the industry that I chose, really freaks me out. My sexuality and my the pattern of ephemeral and emotionally unavailable partners I encountered after my breakup really freaks me out. But this current bad patch that I'm going through really has me feeling like I'm at Trader Joes on a Sunday at noon: overwhelmed, anxious, confused and stressed tf out (Also why can't I ever find the granola?).

I'm not particularly religious, I'm not not religious, but I'm not religious if that makes any sense (stay with me here). But when shit gets wacky, I can't help but feel like I'm not able to wrap my brain around any of it. Did I fuck something up Karma wise? Do I talk too much shit because sometimes I rely on shit-talking to find a common understanding with coworkers or friends? Should I have given the Showtime kids on the subway money cause I secretly did enjoy their dance moves? Am I a terrible lover, who lets people emotionally in, exposes my heart and tries to see theirs only to fold up my suitcase and take the first out I get the second things are less than perfect?

Did I accidentally break a mirror or let a black cat cross my path?

Or is this ~someone's~ plan for me? I recently listened to NPR's How I Built This podcast (a podcast about how successful business moguls built their empires) and I heard something that really stuck with me. In an interview with Nolan Bushnell (who invented Atari AND Chuck E. Cheese), he said: "there's no question that a good failure is good for your soul, there is nothing worse than feeling like you're invincible and really cool and entitled." While I think it's bold to say that I was feeling invincible cause let's be honest, ya girl has trouble being happy even when shit is great, but he does have a point. I know in my heart that the times where you struggle are the times where you grow, you gotta stretch your leaves to catch the sunlight right? but god damn it's hard.

I also can't help but feel so self-involved to make this ENTIRE blog post because I feel like it's VERY woe is me. I know that my issues are tiny in the grand scheme of the world. I'm living in New York, I have wifi and food and a family that loves me and I would hate for a second if anyone thought that I was this entitled, snobby idiot who ran into a patch of bad luck and is now flipping out about it (which is maybe the case tbh who tf knows). BUT I'm writing all of this out in hopes that someone can relate, and maybe feel comfort in finding a space on the internet that isn't perfectly articulated sunshine and rainbows like your current Instagram feed. Trust me, you will experience NO FOMO HERE on dailysass.com.

Over these past three years in New York, I've shied away from this blog because I felt insincere writing to you if I didn't have the answers. If I didn't end things on a positive note why would anyone want to read this? New York has mustered up the worst imposter syndrome in me, especially when it comes to my writing. Whether it be my difficulty with some grammar mechanics or my ex-boyfriend telling me that my writing "wasn't great," I've hidden this part of me and the habitual practice of getting my feelings down on concrete and have let all my feelings float away like an accidentally released pink balloon after a birthday party.

When cuties swerve you, when friends dump you, when jobs lay you off, when someone breaks a snapstreak, when you don't ace interviews or edit tests, it's SO HARD to not take that shit personally. When you can't fit your favorite summer dresses after a long winter of warm and delicious carbs, when you actually wished you were more hungover so that you could justify the chicken tenders and fries you just ordered for delivery, when you feel like there is absolutely NOTHING left to watch on Netflix, just know that I get it.

There is no hugely uplifting positive spin that I can give you at this very moment because as I mentioned, I have no answers, and I'm just floating through life just like you are. I need to stop taking comfort in the food I eat which I use as a crutch, I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and simultaneously not beat myself up so much for being sad. I need to find a way to remind myself about the beautiful parts of my life too because there are so many beautiful moments. For example, waking up two mornings in a row with different friends sleeping next to me in my lumpy bed with our bodies perfectly parallel like we're two Twix bars in one package. I need to appreciate the fact that I can go to Trader Joes at 1 pm on a Wednesday right now, because when will I ever be able to say that I can do that. I need to appreciate the fact that despite the occasional times where I'm sometimes spicy, I also have a big heart and give really great hugs. But mostly I need to appreciate the random and potentially completely forgotten corner of the internet that is dailysass.com. It may be a bit dusty, but it will always be here for me and I have to be honest, it feels really good to be back.

Whoever reads this, thank you for putting up with my rambly ass. If you are feeling the same way hmu, we can be each others support systems when romantic entanglements dissolve or if you feel uncomfortable spilling your T around your friends because some of them are "evil homegirls."

I hope you have a really really lovely night/day/vacation idk your life!

Maybe I'll start writing more of my feelings out here, I've missed writing more than you can imagine.



How I Broke My Foot and Found Happiness (sorta)

Dear Pussycats,

Long time no talk. I know that I always say things like this, but I'm human, I'm sorry, and I think it's time we get down to business.

I haven't posted in a long time because I've been really battling what I want to do with this blog, and frankly, what I want to do with my life (omg, I'm a millennial, what else is nu).

Not feeling particularly inspired or inspiring, I've been very distant with this blog.

In my heart, I truly miss blogging and I really miss creating. But if I'm being total honest, I think it's because I've been battling with sad vibes and a bit of happiness-entitlement.

I've been applying for opportunities; I've taken writing classes and even dyed my hair. I bought into this work-out/diet program that involves shakes, color-coded measuring cups and going to sleep hungrier than the hour before Thanksgiving dinner is ready.

On Sunday, I was attempting to better myself by bopping and sweating to a work out tape (you know, the kind where the girls are aggressively hot and aggressively aggressive) wearing a worn-out sports-bra, multi-colored floral bike shorts and my hair in a sloppy bun. And then it happened...*Crack*...I broke my foot.

I was chasing happiness and perfection like a tiny raccoon with a roll of oreos and some garbage dangling in front of my face. It felt like every tiny way I was pushing to better myself came to a crashing halt both emotionally and physically.

At first my boyfriend and I didn't believe it. Yes, I was in pain, but, clearly I couldn't've broken my foot.

The next day, I ubered myself to the Hospital (as one does when she is living alone in Brooklyn) to learn my unfortunate fate. Hobbling to and from different hospital rooms to get various x-rays, with what felt like hours in hospital rooms without any human interaction (let's just say I'm on level 100 of Best Fiends and Ira Glass is my good pal now), then they told me that my foot was "definitely broken."

I honestly couldn't believe it. They also told me that I wouldn't be able to get a cool cast that people could sign (literally my biggest kid dream), and that I would have no choice in my right foot, foot-wear for the next 3 to 4 weeks.

"What kind of sign was this from the universe?" I thought to myself while I was lying ass-up getting my foot coated with a weird-make shift cast.

I hobbled in crutches to the wrong floor, then I had to get dragged around in an wheel chair by the employees who felt bad for me (which was embarrassing because I am able-bodied and everyone in the waiting room looked at me like I was the most dramatic person ever). But hours later, I finally ended up on my boyfriends couch, in a boot, sobbing to my mom on the phone.

"WHY ME?!" Is another thought I actually had (remember, I told you I was garbage). Now don't get me wrong, the media completely lies to you, because I think it's sometimes awesome when people feel sorry for you – you feel like a tiny princess who is being cared for and adored. This is the same kind of the reason why I love birthdays! I live for the attention and affection because I have low-self esteem and it feels good to be liked and worried about (sue me!).

Speaking of low-self esteem and general self pity - earlier today I found myself curled up in a ball comparing my life to beautiful people on Instagram and thought: "why am I not happy?" "why is my life not grammable?" "why is everyone happy but me?" and I felt more and more alone.

Trust me, I know I sound SO dramatic right now, but I just realized that while it's fun getting attention and feeling cared for by others when you are down and out, it's actually pretty gross when I feel sorry for myself.

Yes, it's true, I've been trying really hard to make my life the best it can be. And yes, it's true that I've been rejected from different opportunities. And yes, it's true I broke my damn foot – but I'm not entitled to happiness. Happiness doesn't have to do with deserving it. Happiness has way more to do with your own personal outlook.

That is so much easier said than done (especially for a wine-glass-mostly-empty kind of gal). But just like how my damn foot snapped, I also snapped. I'm tired of feeling sad for myself. I'm tired of not creating content because I'm scared people won't like it or won't read it, and I'm tired of not being my truest, most authentic self.

Lying in a huge dirty pile of clothes on my boyfriends grey, couch that doubles as a cat scratching post, I sat up. I put on this gorgeous dress that I purchased recently, that didn't fit at first – but on a day like today it magically did!

While this may be a tiny tiny victory, it is still a victory, and I hope to use the blog to share more personal victories with you!

So I'm back, with no promises, no expectations but instead with a lot of excitement!

I missed you friends!

What is a little victory you've had recently?

Keep it sassy pussycats,


How I Woke Kurt Cobains Spirit at Soul Cycle

I’m not the most athletic person.

When I say that I mean, I told my gym teacher in 7th grade that I had asthma so I wouldn’t have to run as many laps as everyone else. A lie I maintained all the way through my senior year in High School.  I’d quit just about every sport I ever played, and recently gave up my gym membership because I wasn’t going - even the allure of maybe seeing a glistening, t-shirted Michael Shannon once in awhile wasn’t enough.

And while I usually consider all the walking I do to and from subway stations in New York exercise - emerging from winter hibernation mode, I realized that I barely fit my favorite clothes and that maybe it was time to find an exercise that I don't totally hate. 

Every day on my way to and from the subway, I pass a SoulCycle. One day, I pressed my nose to the big glass windows and saw the hustle and bustle of young, yoga-fit moms wearing color coordinated Lululemon workout gear, and the super happy employees giving out water bottles and smiles. Blerg. Staring at these women made me low-key feel like I was that 7th grader again, sitting on the sidelines watching my classmates run without a care, while pretending to breathe asthmatically to avoid the wrath of my gym teacher. Despite these thoughts, I decided that this would be my starting point.

The morning arrived for my first class and after a cup of coffee and a banana, I slipped on my yoga pants, wore two sports bras because one can never be too prepared when it comes to booby-bounce - slicked my hair into a ponytail, and put on my converse (I need to get some grown up work-out shoes).

I skipped over to SoulCycle 15 minutes early, and was welcomed by the friendly staff. I will say, it felt a bit strange to be on the other side of the window. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the swarm of women with glowing skin, shiny hair - all of them looking like extras from a Shakeweight infomercial. I did notice that on the inside of SoulCycle the attendees seemed a bit more aggressive and less carefree, then what I imagined. Regardless, they all operated like a school of fish, going to their lockers, stretching and waiting patiently outside the class, all together, all in sync, yet not acknowledging each other at all.

The staff checked me in and gave me my first pair of cycling shoes. The cycling shoes were red and black vinyl with three pieces of Velcro to strap your feet in, and had these big scary, square metal plates on the bottom of the shoe. They looked like some kind of posh, prison-issued bowling shoes.

After I put my things in a locker and went up the stairs, I waited outside the class with the other women, while I awkwardly fumbled to put these shoes on without a proper place to sit. I apologized to two different people who bumped into me and without my cell phone for comfort I was left to wonder what women did before a Jazzercise class in 1995.

I was nervous that I was going to be the only stumbling noobie in the bunch, that I would get a side pain, or worse, that I would pass out mid-cycle and need the jaws of life to separate me from the machine to be later whisked away on a stretcher. But just as I began to plan my escape, the employees in matching yellow shirts opened the doors to this dark room that was blasting T-Pain’s “Bootywerk (One Cheek)” and motioned us to come inside.

Again, in unison, the participants moved to their bikes, adjusted them gracefully, and began cycling before the class had begun. It was apparent that I would not be leaving this machine for the next 45 minutes.

The class was illuminated with four huge burning candles in the front of the instructors’ bike and the red emergency EXIT sign. I did wonder if the candles were a fire hazard, but then I whispered to myself, “just go with it, Carol.” I call myself that in times of need.  

In walked this burly, bald, tattooed man in his late 40s. He was wearing a black do-rag and tiny gym shorts. He scanned the room, hopped on his bike and sorta screamed into his headset, “Brooklyn, are you ready to rock?!”

I was a bit scared, but my adrenaline started pumping once he began the class with Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit.”

He proceeded to play a very diverse playlist of the Killers, Nirvana, Eminem and some old Motown jams, while coaching us on different cycling positions - who knew there were so many ways to
sit on a bike? 

Everyone in the class hooted and hollered as he told us to turn up the resistance (I never did figure out how to do that), while bopping their bodies and swinging their perfect ponys to the beat, their legs
cycling at warp speed. I don’t know if I’m extremely rhythmically challenged or if I was just that new, but everyone seemed to know what they were doing except for me. And how did all of those women know all the words to Eminem’s B-sides?

What got me through the class were five parts adrenaline, and two parts constantly contemplating if the class was half an hour or an hour.

Towards the latter half of the class, our instructor proceeded to extinguish the candle flames by whipping his tiny towel above the candles. When there was one candle still lit, he proceeded to pick it up and take it to a beautiful girl in the front of the class, and he said to her “blow it out, baby.” At that moment, I wondered if I was participating in a cult-like séance trying to bring Kurt Cobain back from the dead through the power of synchronized cycling.

My face was beet red and I was drenched like the winner of a wet t-shirt contest I never entered. But there was something really liberating about this experience. Loud music forced me to get outside of my head, the dark lights allowed me to get outside of my body, and the cherry on top was that no one was giving me judgey gym-eyes.

Also, my feet physically strapped into my machine was a great incentive to not give up after 20 minutes like I normally do on an elliptical machine. I didn’t even want to totally die when they made
us do the Macarena, while cycling, with 3-pound weights (okay it wasn’t actually the Macarena, but I don’t know how else to describe it).

Once the class was over, I followed everyone in the room in touching palms and bending at the waist in a bow, as he said some sort of weird Soul Cycle mantra that might as well have been“Namaste, bitches.”

Then the large door swung open and I wanted to hiss like a vampire when light filled the room.

“What just happened?” I wondered to myself as my jelly-legs led me one foot in front of the other to my locker and out the door into the crisp spring air. 

Whatever it was that just happened, I realized that I wanted to do it again. And somehow I knew, something awoke inside me. I think it was the spirit of Kurt. 

I have my next session booked.

Have you ever been to Soul Cycle?
Have you ever joined a cult?
Tell me about it in the comments down below!

Keep it Sassy,


12 Questions I Need Answered!

Dear Pussycats,

I feel like blogs are supposed to be this thing where you give advice and are really certain about everything you're talking about. But in my early adulthood I've realized that I don't know anything about a lot of stuff, so here are a few questions I'd like answered and if any of you have advice, please send it my way.

1) How do I actually conceal the dark circles I've had under my eyes since I was born (I came out of the womb exhausted)?

2) How does anyone afford to live in Manhattan?

3) How does anyone make time to write or do something they love, work out and have a full time job?

4) How do I learn to love myself if I'm hyper paranoid that everyone low-key hates me?

5) Why does my FOMO make me so saaaaaad, when I don't even like doing things most times?

6) Does anyone else fall asleep to Netflix so they don't have to be alone with their sad-nighttime thoughts? Also does anyone watch specifically 30 Rock for this purpose?

7) Why does writing, the thing I love the most, give me SUCH anxiety sometimes?

8) How do I get Zayn to love me when I'm not Gigi Hadid?

9) Does anyone else feel like they have the anxiety of a perfectionist, but lacking any other perfectionist tendencies, i.e. being thorough and actually reading emails in their entirety?

10) Can you spell the words: expierence, throughough, and definetly on the first try?

11) How bad does a period stain have to be to throw out a pair of jeans that you bought three years ago but spent over $400 on? (I used to be bougie)

12) How do you make kale taste good?

Let me know if you have any answers to these questions!

Have a great night Pussycats

and PLEASE keep it sassy,



Spring Cleaning, Hawaii Dreaming!

Dear Pussycats,

Living in New York, I find it really difficult to make time for work and...well anything else! But instead of trying to accomplish a million things during my vacation week back home, I relaxed and prioritized the important stuff. I hung out with my momma, ate a lot of delicious food, watch a ton of Real Housewives and I cleaned my high school bedroom. 

Every morning as the early sunlight would trickle into my teen-girl bedroom, my mamma and I would come in, after a cup of coffee and some deep morning conversation of course, and get to work. 

With each binder full of random school stuff, itchy or XS sweaters, and every partner-less earring that I threw out, the better I felt. Going through each of these possessions that I once deemed as important, and throwing them out - filling up trash bag after trash bag with memories, momentos and mmgarbage, I felt like I was leaving my past behind and moving forward. 

In another effort of spring cleaning, I deleted my Facebook, and honestly, it was even more liberating than throwing out all the uncompleted diaries of mine. 

In some ways, this blog is sort of like one of those diaries that I would start and stop. But this one, I've actually sort of, committed to for 5 years now, which is pretty cool.

Now that I'm back in New York, with a full love-tank and about 15 new freckles on my face, I thought that I would be great to prioritize the things that matter to me again, and one of them, is blogging, and of course fashion.

Since I barely documented being back home, check out my instagram for my humble brag Hawaii photos. But for now, here is Brooklyn!

Some guys asked Mark and I if we wanted a photo together, to which I replied "no," lol. Also no shade Mama, but Mark is coming for you as my photographer extraordinare!

Outfit details: Coat: J.Crew, Dress: Fighting Eel, Hat: J.Crew, Purse: Rebecca Minkoff, Shoes: Sam Edleman 

And that is all for now folks!

Who is your favorite housewife? Let me know down below
and until then
Keep it sassy,


A Chocolate Covered, 14-day Build Up to the BEST DAY EVER!

“Mama, is today my birthday?” I remember asking my mother that question as a four-year-old with sad floppy pigtails and a permanent kool-aid mustache.

She got down on my level and shook her head, “no honey, it’s July, you have a long time to wait.”


I countered with “but wait, is tomorrow my birthday?”…It was safe to assume I was setting myself up for more disappointment… was she going to tell me the tooth fairy wasn’t real next?...smh.

As a small child, I had a really hard time understanding the days of the week, how to tie your shoes without two bunnies ears and the concept that your birthday is only one day a year.

I wanted every day to be my birthday, because who doesn’t want cake, attention and presents, EVERY SINGLE DAY.

And unlike the average bear, I have a beautiful, heart-filled, chocolate covered, fourteen-day build up to my favorite day. Not to mention that my special day ALWAYS falls on a three-day-weekend.

I mean, February 16th is the ultimate birthday.  I think everyone can agree that if their birthday was February 16th, they’d be a birthday person too.

I love the fact that our consumerist-driven society starts celebrating Valentines Day on January 2nd, because it means the lovey-dovey build-up to my birthday is only greater and longer.

I get so frustrated with anti-valentines day people, because I take personal offense that they are hating on my birthday month and my general style aesthetic. I’m also offended, because I am the human-personification of Valentines Day.

I know that technically Saint Valentine is the human personification of Valentines day, but hear me out, I commit my life to this shit.

I am a fan of snail mail, hearts are my favorite shape, I wear pink on the daily, talk about love constantly, and eat empty, sweet calories like it’s my day-job.

In a “chicken or the egg” type conundrum, I always wonder if the fact that my birthday is so close to Valentines day effects my love for it, which is reflected in my style and general disposition, or if it’s some sort of reverse. 

I’ve written over 30 Valentines Day related articles on this blog, and I can honestly say I’ve only been taken for two of those years. That means that my love of Valentines Day itself is greater than my love for a romantic partner.

What’s funny to me is that people paint Valentines Day to be this all-or-nothing sort of deal. Either you are in a Nicholas Sparks wet dream, or you are crying eating chocolate in your sweatpants, and I say, WHY CAN’T YOU HAVE BOTH?

I don’t see why you couldn’t wear sweatpants and cry with your boyfriend? Or take yourself on a solo horse-drawn carriage around Central Park!

Valentines Day has shitty stigma because people make it that way. You are not a loser if you don’t have a date, and you aren’t the hottest thing since Hot Pockets if you do have one!

My point here is that my love of Valentines Day and my birthday run deeper than my love of almost anything. And while you’re entitled to your own opinion about the holiday, I truly think there is something much worse than being single on valentines day, and that is, getting a papercut while making a valentine for your hot, married teacher.

I don't really know if this article has a clear point. But what I want is to ask you to join me in my celebration! Lets talk about things we love, love itself and our love of being sad, throughout this entire month!

Who is with me?



Looking for Submissions + Contributors!

Dear Pussycats,

I've been beating myself up a lot lately because of my lack of content on this blog, and my lack of content to create.

I felt like I hit a wall. But you know what? It's okay! I'm only human, and it's okay to take some time off and to ask for some help!

I had an amazing brainstorming session with my AMAZING friend Candy about what I want to do with my blog and we came up with a few ideas.

1) I think I need to take a little bit of time off - nothing crazy, probably just the rest of the the month. But I want to take some time to actually write a bunch of stuff so that you can start expecting more regular content!

2) I WANT CONTRIBUTORS! I love the idea of having regular contributors, maybe just a handful of people that also love to write about their feelings and things they love as much as I do!
I can't choose everyone, but if you're interested please contact me through the button on the side of this blog.
Include your name, age, favorite pastry and a 500-word writing sample!

3) V-day submissions
If you don't think you can handle regular monthly contributions, but are interested in celebrating my FAVORITE holiday with me next month, please feel free to contact me with an idea and we can brainstorm!

Thats all for now, pussycats! Thanks for being so patient with me throughout my whole 5 years of blogging!

See you next month pussycats!