The Acceptional* Feminist

Last night, a fairly new crony and I went on an excursion to “the ruins,” an old, torn up structure that rests on the side of a hill not out of walking distance, and not too steep to climb up to in sandals.

We sat down side-by-side and took in the city view and had deep discussions about life. Naturally, the topic of feminism, and my firm belief in human equality, was a major topic of discussion.

“I’m a feminist,” I mentioned, as casually as you would say, “I’m a sophomore,” or “i’m a dog person.”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, just noticeable enough for me to know that I wasn’t going to like what I was about to hear out of his pie hole.

You wanna know what he said? Okay here goes:

“Oh, but you’re a GOOD feminist,” he said.

It kind of reminded me of the way I repeatedly pat my dog on the head after she pees outside rather than on the carpet.

I blinked away any possibility of a stupor of thought before clarifying for him that Feminism is inherently a GOOD and all-around beneficial movement for society as a whole, and had to differentiate between a feminist and a man-hater.

Now what, you may ask, qualifies me as a “good feminist” to this young man?

Is it the fact that I like wearing skirts and shave my armpits (and legs, all 3 months of summer, anyway) and wear mascara on a daily basis? Is it that i’m straight and let guys take me on dates and don’t make a scene if someone opens a door for me?

Is it that the way I present myself JUST SO HAPPENS to conform to a lot of society’s list of acceptable ways to present yourself?

Because if that’s what makes me a “good feminist,” then I don’t want to be a “good feminist.” That’s the whole point, right? To show that women DON’T NEED the acceptance or approval of men and are human people who, gee, I dunno, do things because they make them happy?

Trust me, I don’t do any altering of my own appearance in pursuit of the approval of men. I wear skirts because dang it sometimes it gets really hot here in Utah and I just so happen to despise pants. I wear mascara because it makes me feel more alert, awake, and ready for my day. I shave my legs because I think it feels really disgusting when you brush your legs against each other and can feel the hair follicles moving.

Notice how none of my reasons for my feminine hygiene regimen have anything to do with men? Yes, me, too.

I guess some people really will never understand that NOT ALL FEMINISTS are bra-burning, man-hating, vengeful women.

Some are.

Some feminists are just your average-joe college girls who love bows and slug bugs and bleaching their hair and dates with preppy boys who wear Jake by Hollister cologne who simply refuse to be treated as second-class citizens because their anatomy differs from that of their male peers.

But conveniently, and luckily, for me, I have been deemed a “good feminist,” by a man.

Hooray for wanting equal rights in a manner that suits dudes!


*Note: I am completely aware that “acceptional” is not a real word… yet. But this is MY blog, MY rules, and MY vocabulary. For your convenience, I have provided a reference guide.

Acceptional: (adj) containing qualities/behaviors that are both acceptable and favorable. 

For Maximum Efficiency

My friend and I were reminiscing on acquaintances from high school yesterday, and naturally, our conversation morphed into a bash-fest of people we loathed. My friend brought up a girl that we’d been mutual friends with, but my friend’s relationship with this girl turned sour due to the girl’s blunt honesty and disregard for others’ reception of her verbalized opinions. I am still on good terms with this girl, despite my friend’s animosity toward her. 

My friend began listing out the qualities about this girl that caused the termination of their friendship. Her list started out with the girl’s character traits, but, as any gossiping female would, her list ended with insults on the girl’s physique. (Her “weird-shaped” head, of all things, which is completely unalterable, and quite frankly one of the most comedically pathetic insults I could possibly think of.) 

I told my friend that regardless of her opinion, I still liked the girl, and told her to be nice. (BLEH, she says.) Before I continue any further, I just want to acknowledge that I know that I am more than guilty of saying bitchy things behind girls’ backs, and I, too, have made fun of girls for their physical appearances, even though, hypocritically, I believe that the way a person looks has absolutely nothing to do with their value and like-ability. 

I’m a hypocrite, yes. 

Again, i’m only human, and I am only using this story to make a point. 

As with most things, I gave this conversation way more thought than normal humans do, and I noticed that this similar situation happens frequently among the ladyverse. 

When we’re blabbing away to our girlfriends about other girls that we can’t stand, why is it that we feel a need to not only insult their “hamartia”, but, while we’re at it, attack their physique, weight, hair, boobs, etc.? 

“Ugh she is such a fat, ugly b*tch.” 

“That slut’s nose is as big as jupiter.” 

Why does calling a girl a brat or a jerk or stupid not satisfy our tongues? Why do we feel the need to include the fact that she’s an UGLY brat or a FAT jerk? 

I’d be willing to bet that the majority of us females, myself included, would rather be called a brat than be called ugly or fat. Because hey, I may be a sucky person with a drag of a personality, but at least I’m pretty and that’s all that matters. 

I’m right, aren’t I? 

Most of us would never admit this out loud, but the sting of being called “ugly” lasts way longer and affects us way worse than being called “stupid” or bratty. 

Beauty takes the cake in the way we want others to think of us.

I know that people will continue to bad-mouth other people to their friends, but it’s possible to hate someone without ridiculing their physical appearances. 

That’s your food for thought on this fine Thursday. 



Women are people. 

Women are not objects, property, toys, second-class citizens, baby vessels, commodities, sandwich-makers, or psychologically/physically incapable of “masculine” tasks. 

Women are people. 

Men are people. 

Men are not financial plans, sugar daddies, jar-openers, or objects. 

Men are people. 

Homosexuals are people.

Blacks are people. 

Hispanics are people. 

(Insert any minority/group of people that differ from groups of people you belong to) 


I am willing to bet that a majority of you stable-minded people would be willing to come to a consensus that all of the the above statements are fact, and if you’re not, feel free to discontinue reading. 

Tell me this then: Why do sexism, racism, ethnic stereotyping, or homophobia exist? 

Those of you who are still reading have previously agreed with my argument that all variations of people are indeed people. More than that, they are equal people. 

Because all people are equal, all people are equally capable of making their own life-decisions, regardless of cultural norms or gender stereotypes. 

I am going to focus the majority of this post on the issue of sexism. 

Now, I understand that each sex is maybe better-equipped to fulfil certain roles in our world. By this, I mean that men are GENERALLY (not absolutely) physically more muscular, thus being able to develop a greater amount of physical strength at a more rapid pace than women. On the other hand, women are given the ability to bear children, thus making them GENERALLY more capable of nurturing their offspring. 

Both of these instances are due to each sex’s physical makeup, and I realize that there is nothing I could possibly do to change that. 

Because both instances are GENERALLY the case (not ABSOLUTELY the case), there is always deviation from the “norm.” Just because one sex may TEND to be better at fulfilling specific role, it is crucial to remember that every individual’s circumstances are unique. 

Each person ever born was born with this thing called “agency.” Agency means that we are willing to choose how we want to live our lives, regardless of our biological sex, skin color, religious beliefs, socioeconomic class, etc. 

Because all people are equal, it would only make sense that they should all be able to decide what to do with their lives, and other people should shut their fat pie-holes about it, even if they disagree with another’s choices. 

In my Utahn culture, it is virtually expected that a young woman marry as soon as she can so that she can pop out a half-dozen children and then spend the next 20 years raising said offspring. 

I have no problem with girls deciding to take this course in life. If being a housewife will be fulfilling to them, I say go for it! Even though I have prioritized my life a little differently, I respect their decisions to work within the home. 

Because I respect other peoples’ life choices, even if they are the complete obverse of my own, I expect the same from them. I have no desire to be a housewife. My aspiration is to establish myself in a successful and personally empowering career. Just because my decision deviates from the cultural norm, this does not make me any worse, less, or more selfish than those who choose to stick with what society expects of them. 

I believe that whatever will make a person happiest and help them to live the most fulfilling life possible, is the correct choice for the individual. May that be to join the marines, become a school teacher, or a stay-at-home mom. (Which, may I remind you, is a full-time job of its own. Don’t ever say you’re JUST a stay-at-home mom.) 

All I want out of this is to be presented with ALL the same opportunities as my male peers, and to be able to choose whatever is most suitable for me without being judged or questioned for pursuing said opportunities. Think about it. Nobody ever questions a GUY for earning a PhD. But when I say that getting a doctorate degree is my goal, people always ask me when I’m going to fit in marriage and a family. And the answer is, when I am good and ready, and inevitably fixed on achieving my educational and career goals. 

I am a feminist, because I am just as human as my male peers. And it’s about time that I begin to be treated as such. 

If you’re with me on this, congratulations! You’re a feminist, too, and you can sit by me. 




Pestistance (noun): unfaltering continuance in persuing romantic attention from a member of the opposite gender, regardless of volume/frequency of rejection or negligence, thus becoming a nuisance to the rejector. 

See also: stalker, psycho, pest.

I will get one of my newly-coined terms in the dictionary one day. Mark my words. 

Now I’m sure you’re all DYING to hear what motivated the invention of my latest vocabulary word. And I’m dying to tell you. 

Because I am no exception to the psychological damage that social media has inflicted on its youthful participants, I admit to accepting users on Facebook that I don’t necessarily know from real-life. I’m willing to bet that a solid 3% of my Facebook friends are from Pakistan or Uganda. I have no ties to Pakistan or Uganda whatsoever. But what the heck, if somebody requests my friendship on a social network, who am I to deny them access to my exceptionally humerous status updates? 

However, the very first ever PESTistant person was not from Pakistan. Or even Uganda. No, he was from none other than my home state. Let me tell you, accepting his friend request is one of my biggest regrets to date. 

Here’s why: 

From the moment I hit the “Confirm” button on his friend request, this lad has been requesting to meet me in person. From what I could see from his profile page, he seemed like a very nice, sweet, clean-cut LDS boy. And I’m certain he is. He’s just an excessively-persistant, borderline-obsessive, sweet, clean-cut LDS boy. 

This cyber-chap has been consistently requesting that we “meet up” for weeks. Yes, multiple weeks. Most of his messages never even received a response from me. And yet, they continued. 

I hate how Facebook has enabled us to view when the recipient has read your message. Because when he sees that I read his message, he writes yet another one, claiming that he’s “done nothing wrong!” and demands to know why i’m “afraid to meet him.” 

What on earth would lead him to believe that I am “afraid” to make his acquaintance? Did he ever consider the fact that maybe I’m just not interested? You would think that after nearly a month of pure rejection, you’d just let it go already and move on to the next random chick you find online. 

It’s nothing personal against him, I’m just. not. interested. 

There should be no more questions asked, and he should really go find another host for his pest-like behavior. 

I have even clearly and directly explained to him that I have no interest in meeting him, and yet the messages have continued. But I am a very easily-annoyed pre-adult, and I have had quite enough. 

I hate to do this, but cyber matey, you may now considered yourself both deleted and blocked. 

Have yourself a nice day. 




One of the most crucial things to realize as a feminist is that ALL people-both male and female- are participants in our patriarchal society. This means that women contribute to their own oppression. 

My Women’s Studies professor brought this to our attention the other week in class, and she couldn’t be more right. My initial reaction was, “why would women bring oppression on themselves? We don’t do that, we all hate oppression.” I had a hard time agreeing with this, which provoked my investigative mind. 

Our class discussion was intended to introduce things like genital cutting and foot-binding in other parts of the world and how oftentimes, it is women, not men, who are committing these acts; rites of passage, as they might be in other cultures. 

But I wanted to apply this concept on a more local level. 

How do women contribute to the oppression of women? I’ll tell you how. We oppress ourselves and the women around us because we hate other women. 

Admittedly, I am guilty of this. I intentionally avoided the entire female population in my high school. I’d never had more than one girl friend in my entire adolescent existence. To this day, there are very few women in my life that I could confidently call a “friend.” I had generalized that ALL girls were stuck up, back-stabbing snots, and I wanted no part in that. 

Also, I’m really good at judging other women-unfeministically (yeah, it’s a word now) labeling girls who wear short shorts or low cut tops “sluts”, girls who make snarky comments or have a bit of an attitude a word-that-starts-with-B, and the like. 

I know, it’s hypocritical of me. But, let’s face it, every last one of us is a hypocrite to some degree. So don’t go judging me just yet. 

The beauty of it all is that now that I’ve realized my wrong-doings, I have the power to decide to change. 

This morning, in the bathroom at the university, while I was washing my hands, a girl who was self-consciously examining herself in the mirror told me she liked my outfit, and it gave me quite the confidence boost. I don’t know if it’s because of the lack of female allies in my life, but I don’t receive compliments from my own gender very often. Perhaps it’s because we tend to see other women as competition or something. 

What I’m trying to get at here is that if girls could learn to treat other girls with the respect and equality that we demand for ourselves, the entire female population would be substantially more empowered. 

Instead of being individual “feminists” who are fighting the good fight against the patriarchy on our own, wouldn’t it be extremely helpful to have some allies on our side? 

I’ve realized that my views on feminism were rather selfish. What I wanted was equality for myself. I wasn’t particularly interested in empowerment and equality for the rest of the women in this world. But that’s all changed now. 

So what do you say, ladies? I think the majority of you will agree with me that we girls can be nasty and hostile toward one another. But what if we all realized that we’re in the same boat, at least in regards to gender inequality, and help each other out a little? 

I’m not saying we should all be “besties” or whatever. But we don’t have to be enemies, either. 

That way, we could be each others’ support system, and actually bring about some progress in eliminating our own oppression.  

Now who’s with me?







Some lessons are best taught by 9-year-olds. 

I have the pleasure of playing “mommy” this weekend while my parents are basking in the Floridan sun. One of my parental duties is to get my baby sister ready for school in the morning. It was her third grade class elections yesterday, so I insisted that she get up early so that I’d have time to curl her hair so she could “look the part” while delivering her campaign speech. (Aren’t third graders a little young to be having a student government? Like what are their issues? Broken crayons?) 

Anyway, after forcefully removing her from her bed and dragging her downstairs into my bedchamber, I sat her down in front of my mirror and began taming her bed-head. 

Twenty minutes later, after i’d finished curling her hair, I told her how pretty she was. She responded perfectly. 

“I know.” 

When was the last time you responded to a compliment like that? Can’t remember? Me neither. 

This feisty, little 9-year-old has yet to have her self esteem torn down, ripped to shreds, and irreversibly damaged, despite the toxic environment around her. She doesn’t compare her outward appearance to the girl next to her. She doesn’t look at covers of magazines and think “man, I wish I looked like her.” And you better believe I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that her self-esteem stays untouched. 

How beautiful would that be, if we were all able to have the same confidence as my baby sister? To be able to sincerely accept and believe a compliment. To have an unchanging perception of ourselves, and to love that perception in its entirety. 

I can honestly tell you that I have no idea what that would be like. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t refute a compliment from a stranger, or gaze in the mirror with an attitude of disapproval. 

And also, why is it so frowned upon to accept a compliment? If someone were to tell me I had beautiful eyes, and I were to respond with “I know,” the complimenter would think of me as an arrogant, stuck-up snot. But I say, what’s wrong with expressing that you like something about yourself? I mean, definitely, moderation in all things, but in my personal opinion, there is nothing wrong with agreeing with someone when they tell you they like something about you. 

It’s okay to love yourself. In fact, it’s crucial. 


But A Number

The other day, my little sister McCall and I went on an adventure to the Holy Krishna Temple to participate in their Festival of Colors. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s basically some religious celebration in which people gather at this temple in the middle of freaking nowhere to bond together over the throwing of chalky, neon-colored powder. I highly recommend this event, it’s the cheapest, messiest form of entertainment I’d ever participated in.



There we are, all pretty and tinged. (I’m the short one.) As I mentioned before, this event was boisterous, in the best kind of way. Strangers became friends (or enemies, based on your mood) by flinging handfuls of color at each others faces, limbs, and glutes. I’m For some reason, being in a crowd full of people covered head-to-toe in neon chalk gives you all the confidence in the world.

Everywhere you looked, you’d see strangers kissing strangers, guys slapping random girls’ butts, homeboys holding “Free Kisses” signs, and, my favorite, photobombers. 



I don’t have a clue as to who this guy is. Maybe he cleans up well. We could totally be a couple.(: 

It is a rare person who escaped that event without having her personal bubble ravaged by some dude who thought she had a nice tush. 

However, it’s even more rare to be asked if you’d like a “handprint on your ass.” Yes, kids, that’s a direct quotation. A spirited young fellow literally asked me if i’d like his handprint on my butt. No thank you, sir, I’m golden. 

My sister and I were approached the second we got out of the car by two thirty-something man-children who informed us that we were pretty and gave us each a lingering embrace. 

We’ll never see handprint guy or the tenacious huggers again, which makes it all okay. 

McCall and I took multiple laps around the Holy Krishna, sprinkling our chalk on strangers, taking selfies in front of the temple, and getting cat-called and smothered in blues, greens, yellows and pinks. Having the time of our lives. 

One particular bloke had shown his fondness for my appearance by throwing multiple handfuls of color in my face, over my head, and at my tummy. Later that day, he’d found me again, but this time he didn’t throw anything at me. Instead, he said “Hey, how old are you?” 

My typical response to that question is “how old do I look?” 

He hesitated, but finally responded that I looked around sixteen or seventeen years old. This typical of strangers. Can someone please tell me what it is about me that makes me look like I’m still in high school? Please and thank you. 

A little annoyed, I bluntly, and rather sassily, informed him that I was nearing my nineteenth anniversary of life. He reacted exactly the way I would have expected; he asked for my I.D. I looked over at McCall, who was grinning from ear to ear. She gloats in the fact that nearly every stranger we encounter assumes her to be the elder. She really doesn’t look older than me, though. I’m convinced that the only reason for this nonsense is the fact that she is a solid four to five inches taller than me. Her superiority in height seems to entitle her to an attitude of condescension toward me, which I do NOT tolerate well. 

I was huffing with exasperation at this point in our brief interaction. This stranger sensed this, uttered an apology, and assured me that he believed that I was telling the truth about my age. Then, he granted us the opportunity to reconvene later that evening for a hot-tub sesh, and insisted that I save his number in my phone. I humored him, and typed his digits into my contact book, and later cleared that entry. 

This is just one of multiple flustering events  in which people mistake me for being much younger than I am, which is extremely frustrating when my maturity level indicates otherwise. People always tell me I’m going to love it when I’m forty, and people think I don’t look a day over thirty. And that may be true. But right now, it SUCKS. (For lack of a better word.)

When I tell you I’m almost nineteen, don’t question it. I get that this fellow was trying to validate that I wasn’t “jail bait” or whatever, but once I told him I was no longer a minor, that should have been the end of that conversation. Geez. 

Other than that incident, McCall and I had a very enjoyable afternoon. However, it takes DAYS to completely cleanse yourself of all that chalk. It. Gets. Everywhere. 

And also, it dyed my golden locks a murky, purplish-green color. Which I am just not edgy enough to pull off. Seven shampooing treatments later, and no sign of it fading. I’m a plum-head.  





The Harm In Formality

First dates are so formal. If you think about it, you spend three or four hours engaging in some sort of structured activity with another person, nervously and anxiously trying to impress the dude and try to get to know him at the same time.

My question is, how are you supposed to get to know someone when they are putting on a front just like you are in order to impress you? I know i’m guilty of spending an extra half hour making sure my hair has more bounce and shine than usual and that my eye makeup is just slightly darker in attempt to make my eyes that much more alluring, and sucking on breath mints until he arrives.

Then he comes to the door, wearing a just-more-than-casual button-up shirt that he may or may not have ironed beforehand, and wouldn’t be caught dead in on a typical day. You exchange a stiff “hello” and follow him to his car, where, if he is a “gentleman”, he will open the passenger door and wait for you to self-consciously climb inside before jogging around the automobile to climb in through the driver’s side.

I don’t care how much of a “gentleman” your date is, there is no way that he regularly opens the car door for his passengers. It’s just not natural.

As the time passes, slowly at first, but progressively faster, you anxiously and cautiously engage in a conversation in which all you can think about is the kind of person you’re coming across as and anticipating possible conversation-starters just in case, heaven forbid, the current topic of conversation dies out and you both end up sitting across the table in an awkward stupor of speechlessness, and how you only get one first impression and oh gosh now it’s raining and he’s going to see your hair transform into an untamed, frizzy mess and nobody is into an untamed frizzy mess.

Again, I thought the point of dating was to get to know someone and see if they make the cut for a second date, and eventually, a relationship. But it’s really hard to do that when you’re putting on a faker-than-fake persona that you THINK he will like. Let’s be honest, people. You can only hide your crazy for so long.

So there you are, sitting across the table with someone that you can now call an acquaintance, and the conversation is beginning to flow a little more freely. The tension is gradually being lifted and you feel yourself relax. That is, until it’s time to order, but luckily you’ve premeditated appropriate food options in order to avoid getting food on your attire, face, or worse, in between your teeth. And also, it can’t be a hamburger or else he’ll think you’re a total fatty.

Then there’s the matter of how much you should eat. You can’t possibly finish the entire dish in front of a GUY, even though you skipped out on lunch today and can feel your tummy eating itself it’s that hungry. And you better not eat more than he does. And you better not eat too fast, but you can’t take too long and make him wait for you, either.

What’s the big deal? If a guy is gonna treat me to a 12-dollar dinner at my favorite restaurant, you better believe I’m gonna enjoy it. ALL of it.

The date comes to a close, and let’s say hypothetically he does like this fake-o person you improvised, based on your assumptions of what he likes, and you get a second date with this suitor. How long are you going to play the part of the well-mannered, exceedingly polite, normal girl that you were on your first date? And by the way, he’s doing the same thing. Where does the formality stop, and a couple decides to be themselves instead?

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good, well-planned, structured date. But I HATE the pressure that comes with it. All it is is two people putting on a show for one another while out for a night of public entertainment. Maybe I’m the only one with this problem. I just find it immensely difficult to be myself on a date when there is a mutual expectation to behave as a proper, formal person who is just talkative enough to make herself interesting, but doesn’t give too much away, and is instantly intrigued with everything that comes out of her date’s mouth.

I guess everyone’s different, and some people just need some time to break out of their little shells when they’re around new people. But I just wish there weren’t so much pressure to impress people. On dates. In everyday life. Like I said, you can only hide your crazy for so long, and after spending X amount of time with the same person, they’re bound to meet the REAL you. And the faster you can be the REAL you around someone, the faster you can weed out the ones who aren’t going to stick around when they meet you in your entirety.

Can I get an amen?



Porcelain Envy

I love myself. I do. I love that my my skin is the lightest of ivory white and lightly speckled with orange sun kisses. I love my lack of athletic ability and the way I avoid physical activity like the plague. I like that I purposely try to use the biggest words that I can think of in place of ordinary, everyday words. I love that I don’t have an ounce of muscle on my body. I love that I am relatively short and that I don’t have protruding cheekbones. I love that my eyes are a mixture of both emerald and sapphire and have specks in them where the color is less intense.

Despite all the parts of me that I love, I still turn green with envy on occasion. The occasion where this happens most is SOCCER GAMES.

Let me explain further.

My little sister is 16 years old. Beautiful, tall, with darkened skin and an athletic build. The brat.

She’s been playing soccer since longer than I can remember, and she’s good. She currently plays on my former high school’s team, and on a competition team as well. This past weekend, I had the opportunity to travel to the classy city of Las Vegas, Nevada, to spectate at one of her tournaments.

My pasty complexion is extremely sensitive to the sun, and laying outside on a blanket for three hours a day surely didn’t do my derma any favors. But while I was laying there, letting my flesh turn the color of a ripe tomato, and attempting to follow my sister’s soccer match, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of those stupid soccer chicks.

They ALL had naturally bronzed skin, a lean, slender build, and the ability to run after a stupid ball for hours on end. The direct and exact opposite of myself, in other words.

Like I said, I’m happy with the way that I am. But gosh dang it I wish I were a sporty girl. It doesn’t even matter what sport, really. I just wish that my limbs were capable of enough coordination that I could at least be capable of playing a casual game of catch or pass or whatever soccer players do… (dribble?) without causing myself any physical harm, or kicking the ball into the neighboring soccer field.

I can’t help but wonder, if I would have stuck with the recreational sports my parents signed me up for in my elementary school years, if I would have had the potential to become a sporty girl. The world may never know.

Me wanting to be an athlete is about as ridiculous as Jenna from 13 Going On 30 wanting to be 30.

So I will continue to embrace my clumsy, uncoordinated, and awkward self, and watching my sister’s sporting games from indoors in effort to save my fair skin from acquiring melanoma. And I will stop wishing I were a sporty girl, and love the fact that I’m the dorky, pasty-white girl who can hardly walk in a straight line. Because she is just as good as every last one of those jock chicks. Chick jocks?

I think that’s how you learn to be happy in this world. If you can figure out who you are and then learn to embrace that person, and love her for her faults, flaws, and positive qualities alike, regardless of what the girl next to you has, you’ve got it made.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, comparison is the thief of joy.

This post was all over the place. Kind of like me.