’Tis the season to LEAVE BEHIND US and move on to greener pastures. With the new year peeking and my sanity fleeting, now would be a pretty good darn time to actually invest in some self-realization and a new mascara. (I still haven’t found my other one. Also, Google keeps asking me if I meant “pink, mini pet mouse that can TWIRL and fit under cupboards” when I clearly said TWERK, hunty.)

So, anyway, my self-growth started…well, forever ago. We’re always growing as beings (taller than the shower head!), and that is something that is not new to me or anyone else out there who eats with a fork and has trust issues. Which is to say, I never make New Year’s resolutions. Most of the time, resolutions set are goals never met. Like, I told myself that I would give birth to you, D-dawg, earlier in life. Your father—my emotions—and I just weren’t ready yet, I’m afraid. But then I became a neurotic Nutella junkie and Johnny Depp still isn’t answering my calls, so I had to vent SOMEWHERE.

Some people really do keep their resolutions, and I am their biggest admirer. But me? I’ll be right here, taking selfies in my bathroom mirror. ♦