arthipstory

There’s actually nothing I love more about springtime than baseball.

Everyone just parading around with three cups of Bud Lites and hot dogs, completely oversaturated with toppings.

Apparently, the Chicagoan in me is supposed to just curl up and die whenever I put ketchup on a hot dog, but I just don’t care.

When my BFF dissects every text message encounter with all her recent matches…

Dear Susan,

Thanks for your email at 4:46p on a Friday afternoon. Why yes, I’d love to collaborate on a project with you. Due Monday, you say? Can’t wait.

Regards,

arthipstory

Breakfast of champions.

Why isn’t ice cream before 8pm more socially acceptable? Let’s just call it the Benjamin Button Diet, where we do everything in reverse.

I ate a Pop Tart, room temp, in the car on my way to work this morning.

Congratulations to all you fancy people who live the lavish lifestyle of a croissant served with half a stick of butter and orange juice in a damn goblet.

I’m not even kidding, Michel Sittow’s The Assumption of the Virgin is about the same size as this .jpg.

And yet, it’s so incredibly detailed! The small, glistening stones in Mary’s crown; the small, glistening angels carrying a moon bow for Mary’s ascension; the small, glistening windows in the city below. I suppose at 5×7″, it has to be both “small” by definition, but “glistening?!” Glistening is ALL extra. <3<3<3

Hello!? A MOON BOW. That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen any figure stand on to get into Heaven.

I have found myself saying or thinking this about everyone, including:
– MY TAXES, JESUS;
– my new landlord (who actually has an online paying system vs. shoving checks under a door like before…how rude!),
– my boss regarding every and all project deadline,
– dates I know I’m already going to bail on,
– fitness class confirmation emails,
– generally all workplace correspondence.

Gentle midweek reminder that staying at home on my your ONE’S couch hoping my your ONE’S UberEats delivery guy will be both a 6’4″ BABE and a nonchalant postdoctoral candidate won’t actually be a thing.

Or like, hoping for exciting, “big deal” projects will land on my ONE’S desk when, lol, I’ve been past due on everything required.

Kidding. Kind of.

Go get ’em tiger. It’s a new month!…or something.

There’s something incredibly knowing about the eyebrow of the woman closest to us, yeah? Like, the mystery, the intrigue…girlfriend is fascinating.

Which, I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW: painted by the hand of Paul Gauguin, I should hate it. But perhaps–just perhaps!–the gal’s like, “yo girl, I hear you about this clown.”

❤

Monday.

One for every moment I’ll curse the end of vacation…by like, 8:15 this morning.