Nearly two months ago I broke my pinky toe in a freak walking accident. (For detailed Instagram pictures of the bruising, please email me.) Two weeks later I retired my cutoffs and floppy barista hats for a fulltime job at a magazine.
Note: These things are not related, other than the fact that now I’m an editor with a slightly-still-broken toe and a box full of hats.
And somewhere in the middle of all this, my parents called to tell me my childhood dog died. I cried. I cried for hours. I was 200 miles away and the liquids just kept pouring from my face. That night I did a shot of Jameson in Huey‘s name. It’s what he would have wanted. Well, that’s what I told the bartender at least.
Because — and say it with me everyone — when it rains, it pours.
Luckily, my toe will heal and Huey will be reincarnated. In the meantime — in case you come looking for me — I’ll be back on the bloodied rungs of the New York City media ladder making less money, working more and buying terrible coffee. But I’ll have weekends off and my hands will be soft! And hopefully after three topsy turvy post-grad years I’ll be back on track with all that long-term-goal nonsense.
But who knows, right? Weirder things have happened.
This is a picture of a dog with a cast because I broke my toe. Naturally.
