Norm is Two

You know how they say millennial dog parents are the fucking worst creatures to walk the earth or whatever? What's up motherfuckers, sorry you weren't hugged enough as a child, buckle up!

Norm is two today and he deserves all the praise and adoration I can muster because one day we will die and my love for him deserves to live forever on the internet (I can confirm these deaths will take place on the same day because once he goes, in the words of our lord and saviour, Taylor Swift,  I will be jumping off of very tall somethings.) Wow this took a turn.

Norm is a literal star. All he wants in life is to wake up early (it has been observed that he lovingly body checks me repeatedly in the morning until I wake), be your best friend (that is a collective your, he isn't picky he already thinks you are the best) and most importantly, love and adore the apple of his eye, Buttons (my parents dog who is jacked like Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and has incontinence issues so occasionally has to wear a diaper, no judgement from Big Norm!) 

When I walk in my front door, whether I've been gone 4 seconds or 4 hours, Norm jumps double his body height to let me know he missed me. Do you know who else has gained air because they love me? Literally nobody I have ever met, like honestly click your heels so I know it's real or something.

Does he insist on sleeping on solely silk pillow cases? Yes. Did he get in trouble at day care once and my instinct was to rip him out because he's an angel and she was wrong? A possibility. Has he, in the past, ejaculated all over the patio whilst people were actively eating dinner? Suuuure (That minx Buttons gets him every time!) 

But would I literally chop off my arm for him any day of the week? For suuuure.

Thank you Normie for being an absolutely legend, for not judging me when I cry during your favorutie TV show (The Dog House....it really kicks you in the nuts) and most improtantly for not hating me forever when I roll in drunk and torment you way past your bedtime. 

As I always tell you (and it's a good thing I do because I'm not 100% sure you can read) You are my best mate and I think all the other dogs are definitely jealous of how handsome you are.

(Also so sorry for admitting I cried for multiple days when I first got you....that was out of pocket).

Noah Kahan rips my fucking heart out?

A year ago a friend from high school told me I needed to listen to this album that had just come out because it was by a local guy and you know Upper Valley gotta roll for one another, ya know? 

I gave it a listen, liked some tracks on Spotify and then swiftly went back to cranking the Home Alone soundtrack or something I'm not really sure.

Back in August though, I went back home to visit my Mum for the first time in four years and spent 2 weeks roaming around the woods in Vermont, inhaling Folklore by Taylor Swift and then stumbling back on Stick Season and suddenly that shit hit different.

I loved growing up in New England. Did I like chipping ice off my car or getting tardy slips because the doors were literally frozen shut? Hard pass. Did I love that cruising to Walmart to buy car air fresheners and Elvis CD's to sing scream on the way home was a thrilling Friday night? I mean...not at the time. Did I think it was fun to fucking pulverize a deer in Cornish in the Driver's Ed car? Heavily traumatic. 

But I wouldn't change it.

The slush and the numb toes, sneaking 30 racks into the woods to sit by a fire and complain about how boring life is or jumping into gorgeous rivers under the watchful eye of looming mountains.

(Sidenote: Gordon Ramsey fucking hated that place)

At the time my grass was always greener. I was plucked from Australia at 11 and thrown into a literal blizzard. I craved sunshine and a tan. I thought life was bigger and better and more exciting anywhere but here (and honestly it probably was.) I didn't care that the leaves in October were gorgeous and people travelled for miles to witness them. My jaded ass blasted down 89 flipping them the hypothetical bird.

It was slow and it was safe. Although we all scattered like marbles the moment they let us be free, running for Boston and New York and Philly and beyond, I think hindsight is a wonderful thing and as I get older the joy that was had in the bubble settles in. 

Going back home after so long and wandering around Sunapee, looking at teenagers thinking I should know them before realising that all my peers are now lawyers, teachers, mothers and other tax paying old people was quite a trip.

Whilst home, I inhaled Pizza Chef for like two straight weeks as if  I was 14 and it was Friday night post basketball game, or it was the summer and we got bored of wandering around aimlessly or I had just finished a shift (First Job shit you know?)

I thought about how the kids at the day-care I worked at in Highschool were now graduating and wondered if they were also bursting at the seams to get the fuck out of this snow globe like we were?

It was good to be home for a while (in the Summer...catch me not visiting in February, sorry kids) and ever since I've left, I've had Stick Season on repeat. Honestly chisel that shit onto my tombstone at this point. How an album chews up a place and spits it out so beautifully kind of blows my mind. At this time I would like to  personally apologise to any unsuspecting victim I've come across during my downward Noah Kahan spiral who has had to hear about street names they never drove on, speed traps they never had to worry about and ugly black melting snow patches they didn't have to hurdle.

I'm just trying to set the scene through mildly rose coloured glasses, sue me!

10/10. Would listen again...and again...and again.

(Although if anyone told me to my face they wanted to hold my hand until it decomposed I think I would like... change my fucking name....just sayin')

The Shortest Fuse.

At no point in my life would I have ever described myself as a placid soul.

I've always felt I walked a very wobbly tightrope between right as rain and misery guts. 

A personality akin to a trapdoor, ready to flip open and drop you into the mouth of a crocodile at any given moment.

It's not exactly my most sparkling quality and it's one I'm sure is the most frustrating to those who have to deal with me on a semi-regular basis.

Recently I have noticed my hair pin has been firing more frequently than ever before, and for the dumbest of reasons.

To make matters worse what comes firing out is always a surprise to those in the splash zone. It could be tears (I love to cry), it could be rage (I will make you want to cry), it could be silence (the scariest sound) or it could be the JT 1000 Super Trifecta. 

A few years ago whilst I was in the hospital frustration boiled over at my circumstances and I had the fattest cry in front of 5 visitors all squashed around my small bed, internally urging them to leave so I could eviscerate the nurse who had pissed me off in peace. Before leaving my Dad made sure to point out that looking at me in that moment he saw his father, and himself, my lovely short fuse lineage in all it's glory. He knew what the snap felt like, he once quit a job on a whim because he found out a less skilled colleague made as much money as he did and nothing that was said could stop him walking. I asked him if they had offered him more money, would he have stayed? In short, No. It was about principal, and before he knew it he was already driving home.

Although he seems unbothered by the quality, I can't say I'm too fond of this particular DNA strand. 

Have you ever tried pushing those wiry, plastic snakes back into those peanut tins after they have exploded out around a room? I haven't either, but I imagine it's fucking annoying and that is exactly how the clean up feels after a snap.

My favourite method is pretending nothing happened, we didn't just sit in silence for 3 hours or I didn't just flood my pillow with tears, but no matter how calm of an exterior, internally my brain is awkwardly shuffling around collecting snakes and coiling them back in my peanut tin.

I often tell my Dad that I think we both need a good therapist and he scoffs at the thought. Why would we possibly need therapy? As we sit, just two little frogs on a log ready to flamethrower your entire life and hop way forever in a moments notice.

That's just been on my mind a lot recently.

Instead of you know...getting actually help with my problem. I have instead placed a bottle of hand lotion on my bedside table so I can pretend I'm in a sitcom and aggressively lotion my hands before bed whilst a having a bitch to my dog about all my problems.

10/10 would recommend.