Month: February 2015

I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry.

There’s this ache in your chest that happens the moment your heart is about to break. It paralyzes you. Your hands begin to shake and you can’t feel them. The words you want to express become a small whisper. Your eyes well up with a thousand tears that would stop the harshest of droughts. You succumb to it. And at that moment everything falls apart. You break and before you know it, everything feels broken.

I hate that feeling. That feeling of pure vulnerability that nothing will stop this speeding train of emotion. Rip this heart out and transplant me a new one, because this one is dead and broken. Everyone always said that crying was a sign of weakness, and thats all I can ever do. Cry. I cry for everything and anything. I cry when I’m upset, I cry when I’m angry, I cry when good things happen and I cry for every single human emotion. I wish I had this black heart that would stop me. I wish that stopping emotions was as easy as turning on/off a light switch. My mother always said that I would be perfect for the telenovelas, so full of tears and filled with so much emotion. Is that what this is? Just another character to play in an act of a thousand stories?

Why did I have to cry? Why then, why now? Why?

I find myself crying more than normal. Just a sea of a thousand broken hearts before me. I wish I could drown emotions, just suffocate them down as many before me have done. Pretending emotions don’t exist. The more I suppress them, the more the tears form. The more I can’t stop myself as much as I would like too. Promises are meant to be broken is what I realize. People are meant to have their hearts broken. Why does it always happen to me? Why do people always say they’re going to stay and have no problem leaving? I told myself I wasn’t going to cry. Not this time. I wasn’t going to feel heartbroken for people, places, and things. I wasn’t going to promise myself things that were going to fail in the end. I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry, but I can’t help but break. The rush of a thousand heartbreaks and I can’t help but always break my own heart. The idea of loving so much that my own heart falls apart. It was always me wanting the most out of everyone and getting nothing in return. I am the one left with the tears and the broken sorrow.

Not this time. Not today and not tomorrow. I am done breaking and pleading, while breaking my own heart. I can’t take this pain in my chest anymore. This sickness worse than the flu. I can’t get my hopes up for something that will never happen. I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care when all I do is care too fucking much. I am done. Done with people, done with the memories and most of all I am done crying for people that are never worth my time.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. This time I won’t.


Skin and bones.

If I was who you wanted me to be, would you still love me?
If I had been exactly who you wanted me to be, would you still want me?
If I had listened to every word you said, would you still hear me?

I wonder about the silliest of things. Like how a person could disappear and leave their ghost behind. Still haunting when their corpse has long been buried. I am suppose to move on and forget, but I can’t help but reflect and remember. If I had been a fraction of those expectations, would you still give me a chance?

I changed my ways to accommodate your wishes. I changed every aspect of myself to make yourself better and still you wanted more. I wasn’t the change you expected. I wasn’t who you expected me to be. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if I had been exactly what you wanted me to be, would you still want me. I would have bled myself dry, if it meant that this would work. I would have stopped the madness hurting inside, if it meant you would stay just one more day.

How you flocked to the girls with their skin stretched over their bones. How you loved the illusion of this skeleton of a body and fixated on the ideas of that perfection. The countless nights, I counted meals and accounted for every last calorie. Would that be enough? How the extra calories could be slept away or purged until the obsession starts all over again. The illusion of being perfect and the risk of losing it all. I couldn’t control the monster of madness inside. I couldn’t control the obsession of hurting, all for being exactly what you wanted me to be. I begged, I pleaded, I cried, and still you stood so tall. Ordering your demands and I couldn’t help but want to do everything, just to make you stay. It was never enough. Your words flew out like venomous rage, still here to haunt me. I was never your perception of perfection. No matter what I did, I was never enough. You liked me, but you loved her. You cut me down but raved about everyone else’s perfections. I purged every last bit of my insides and you stood tall counting on my imperfections. It wasn’t enough that scratching the surface never deepen the cut. How foolish to believe that if I had been every word of what you wanted, I would have you.

Skin heals, cuts fade and eventually all the bricks you threw at me, will rebuild the little foundation of life I see. You disappeared and buried every last bit of who we used to be. You didn’t count on your ghost being left behind to haunt the remains of a memory. I loved you and all you ever did was bring me down. Took my sadness and devoured it into madness. Maybe we are all just a little mad, but some worse off than others.

You liked me but you loved her. How I always thought otherwise. If I were skin and bones would you love me in the end? If I purged ever last bit of you out of me, would I finally let go of you? If you hadn’t met her, would you still want the same from me?

Would you?



When you move home after years of being on your own, its a hard adjustment. Living with family is different then living with strangers, either way you forget who you are. When you’re on your own, you’re a different person. You can be yourself and your only responsibility is to yourself. It’s hard to come home and regain that life you had before. You’ve been places, you’ve seen things, and no matter where you have been, home is suppose to be home. You lose your independence when your only sense of privacy is the four walls of your own room. I could tell myself this is home until I am blue in the face but this isn’t home. I can’t help but feel like a stranger passing though. When you’ve been on your own it’s a hard realization that this is reality. This is what happens when you make false moves and fail miserably. You answered to no one on your own and now you’re answering millions of questions that fall upon deaf ears.

This isn’t a home. It’s just a place I make my bed just as I had done with the rest of my mistakes. This isn’t my house when I lost the sense of comfort in my own misery. The longer I shut the blinds to shield myself from the sun, the longer I continue into this darkness. This sense of failure that looms over me. I find myself laying awake at night, trying to focus on the ceiling. Where did I go wrong? What is the purpose of this existence, if all I do is fail and come home? All of my belongings are nostalgic memories of the past I no longer want. Accumulating mountains of bullshit currency in these belongings I no longer need. I just want to get rid of everything. Every last bit of these failed memories and feel like this is a home. I know it will never happen and I know that deep down letting everything go would only bring forth the madness within.

I’ve driven past every memory of this hometown. Driven past the reminders of the past and the stories that come with them. Every street, every street light, everything. This doesn’t feel like home to me. While I have been raised here, it’s not home to me. Life was different when I was on my own and alone. Not I am just alone and filled with everyone expectations of what my life should be. When can I go home? Where is my home? I could pick up the pieces and start again but the dark cloud always looms over me. Give it a moment before it starts to fall apart again and back to packing our bags and moving vans.

I need to leave this town to feel better. I need to get back on my feet and find my home again. Its hard to adjust once the comfort of home comes over you. Is this comfort or is this settling? Beats me. I just want to find that place that belongs to me where I feel at home. But where is home? If it’s not here, then where.

Where do I belong.


Leaving Las Vegas.

Everyone always talks about leaving Las Vegas. Seldom to we hear about staying. Now leaving your pride, your sins, and your severe case of deception. If I could erase the sins of Las Vegas, I would. But the countless streams of alcohol have beat me to the punch.

Viva Las Vegas.


It’s amazing how much you can pretend in Vegas. Pretend to be anything and anyone you want. No one will ever question it. I have never really cared for Vegas. An over grown gluttonous city masked with the lights and misconceptions of a good time. I don’t gamble. All I do is drink, and spend endless amounts of money on a frenzy of being and feeling important. Vegas is where the lost boys and girls go to be a young again. A place to forget everything until our flight leaves the next morning. I couldn’t help myself but see through the cracks of this city. The sorrow masked with opportunities of a good time. What brews beneath the surface of the glitter and the after glow?

Why did I ever give you a chance Vegas? Why did I ever believe you were good for me?


I thought if i distanced myself from you, it would all be okay. That I would forget the neon lights and clouds of smoke from the strip. The nice suited men that buy you countless drinks. Forget everything. The countless attempts of self control masked with my own ways of self improvement. But I can’t. Something inside of me just wants to let go and have fun with the rest of them. Throw caution to the wind and join the rest of them. I am lost, so lets get lost together. Pretend nothing happened and then wake up and start all over again. Wash away our sins of Sin City and dress my mask up to make myself decent for you. It’s always you, i truly want to impress. Not the people, not myself, its the city that breeds this need to be someone else. Am I perfect for you now Vegas? Will you love me tonight?


Mornings are always the hardest. That moment between the dream and the reality. Waking up and cleaning up the after effects of the night. God, you looked so beautiful in the night. With your lights shining, beautiful brightly. I can’t help but stand on the strip and take a look at you. Through the grime and the deceit. As the sun shines through the dusty drapes, I can’t help but want to return to the night. Fast forward the morning, the afternoon and return to the night. The night leads to the excess consumption of bad ideas. But damn, you looked so beautiful underneath all the lights. Making me believe that’s who you really are. When I think I see you, all you do is lie to me. Then the mornings return and I can’t help but want to leave this god forsaken city.

I leave you, Vegas. I am leaving you. All you do is take everything you want from me and leave me more lost than before. I can’t take theses mornings, when you leave me hungry for more. I can’t take the drinks that never seem enough to shelter my decisions from my insecurities. I can’t. I am leaving you and everything you stand for, and I’m not ever coming back.

At least not this time.

Just Kids.

Life has a way of coming back full circle. When you least expect it to. I don’t understand it at times, why signs pop up out of no where and cause you to think endlessly. I start to reevaluate everything; people, places, dreams, and things. Music has a way of transporting your feelings into memories. Films have a way of showcasing your emotions with feelings and placements. And Books? Books just find a way to give you the torch to light your way with the words you read. You may not understand it at first, but when you find yourself swaying to the poetic words, you can’t help but be hooked.


I purchased the book Just Kids by Patti Smith, over 5 years ago. It was part intrigue, part nostalgia, and part wanting to be moved from my current surroundings. As many of the items in my room end up being relics of the past, this book became one of them. I denied this book so many times in favor of other things. Maybe it was the intensity of the book and part intimidation, but I couldn’t bring myself to read this book. “I’m not ready”, I kept telling myself. I would pick up the book and then place it back under the stacks of books, still waiting to be read. I held on to this book in anticipation of when I would be fully prepared to read that book. When I would be able to comprehend the words and lose myself in the rhythm of the book. I wasn’t ready. No matter how many times I picked up the book, I just wasn’t ready to fully commit. When I brought myself to read the book, I knew it would hit me like a ton of bricks. That it would ache from the depths of my heart into the depths of my soul. I wasn’t prepared for that, I wasn’t ready. I had always been a bit intimidated by Patti Smith. It was her vulnerability and her honesty in her music that always kept me at an arms length. Through the words that infected and spoke to me on numerous occasions. Her album Horses was a bible of spoken words, dreams, desires and sometimes I couldn’t listen to it. Its almost as the words pierced right through me, telling me, pulling me out of myself. I just wasn’t prepared nor ready to hear everything that she had to say.


When you need something the most is when you reach out and find it. Call it the change in season or the weather but on Monday, I was ready. For two days, I lived and breathed in those words. Devoured every syllable and inch of the book. It opened a world I longed forgotten about. Reminded me of the images of my past and this yearning to create, to live, and to feel inspired. Big cities change people. It changes how you think, feel, create, and live. You’re also surrounded by a variety of movers and shakers, and can’t help but want to be immersed in that life. It was more than a love story about two creative people. It was a living, breathing machine of life and you couldn’t help but feel transported into. Poetic, loving, raw, moving, and absolutely beautiful. It was magic. I fell in love with this nostalgia of two phenomenal people and their journey of growing up, surrounded by this cosmic love and admiration for each other. It made me look into my own life. The people that have come and gone and how upset I was that relationships fall apart. How hard it seems to navigate through my adult life and still holding on to fragments of my past stories. I breathed in another life while reading and breathed out all the chaotic misfortunes of my own. I retreat to the past and seldom tell stories anymore. Part being upset, part wanting to forget, and part still hurt by the failed relationships.


After reading Just Kids, I felt something; happiness, love, and everything in between. I felt magic that I thought I lost long ago on the steps of countless streets where I told myself stories. For the first time in years, I didn’t cry about the past. I didn’t cry about fallen friendships, I didn’t cry about the memories. For the first time I laid to rest the longing to rekindle those old times and memories. I wasn’t a kid then, but I sure as hell acted like one. I was ready to box up the memories and those relics of the past and file it away until it was necessary to bring them back. I loved many aspects of my past but all that nostalgia was bringing me down. I was ready to feel again, ready to let go, and ready to start over. For the first time in years I felt inspired by my past to make good into my present.

For the first time in years, I played Horses and replayed every track.


Would it make you feel better to watch me while I bleed?

Words have a way of suffocating you when you’re trying to breathe. Long after they have been said. They’re the ghosts that come back to haunt you, long after the guilty parties have left. You cling on to them, allow them to marinate inside of you and never let them go. You find yourself believing these things because that’s what you’ve taught yourself to believe. Bruises heal, cuts scar, but words have this long lasting effect that echo through you on the darkest of days.

Everyone says to forget them. Erase them from your mind. That part of your life is over and time to focus on the now. Every once in a while when things happen to hurt more than normal you go back to those words. Those words that make your heart break. Those words that remind you of bleeding and hurting, all over again. You give these words all the power to infest your insides with hatred and you can’t help but allow it to. No matter what you tell yourself its always in the back of your mind, “You’re not good enough, and you never will be”. You are your worst critic and no matter what you tell yourself during the day, it’s the nights that haunt you more than anything. It’s the nights that you are honest with yourself and you can’t help but pick yourself apart. You’re only doing what others have done before you. Nit pick at everything you do and making themselves superior from how you’re feeling. It doesn’t make them ugly, because you know how ugly of a person you already are. Its the same fight you have over and over with yourself. This devil and god continuing to rage inside of you and you can’t help but succumb to the darkness. You fight this battle every night and you tell yourself one day it will be over, one day it will all disappear.

I wish it was easy to forget. That believing people was easy as snapping your fingers. It’s not. While I sit here I just want to pick at the broken scabs and watch myself bleed. It’s what everyone else wants. They want this failure, this shell of a person that radiates black and blue. They want a vessel to point fingers at. How easy it would be to watch the blood drain from my veins just to make you feel better. How easy it was to say the words and never caring of the actions that came after it. It takes more than an empty apology to make things better. I have a jar of empty apologizes and my arms sore from every cut you gave me. I can’t breathe anymore. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, and I can’t help but replay every negative aspect of life people have thrown against me. You make me a victim but I can’t help but always feel like the villain. I am the bad guy, I am the one that’s always in the wrong. But I’m still the one bleeding for your amusement.

We bleed, we give up, then we rise again. It’s not easy being who everyone wants me to be. It’s not easy pretending that everything is fine. I am not fine, I am not even close to being okay. Some days are harder and some days just disappear.  I would have bled myself dry if that would make everyone happy. But I can’t. Instead I watch the cuts turn to scabs and the scab heal into scars. I can’t forget what has happened because the scar is there to remind me. To remind me of the bleeding, the hurt, and the pain of words that I can’t seem to rid from my mind. One day the ghost of the words will no longer haunt me. What a joyful feeling that would be. Until then I sit with my scars and continue to heal.




Miami, Miami.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

First time I believed in Miami, is the first time I believed in the sun. The warmth and comfort of a hug from the light and heat of the big bright yellow sun. It had been years since I paid attention to the sun. Since the rains and storms stopped and something inside of me craved the harsh reality of sunny days and sunshine. I hated the sun. Forcing myself to conceal my skin behind layers of clothing and retreating inside while people came alive in the sun. The sun and the sunshine weren’t for me. Any trace of the sun left me long ago and left me with the pale remembrance of spring through summer. But Miami opened itself to me in a warm familiar hug. It embraced my flaws and comforted me after the storm of my life and reassured me that it would be okay. Will it ever be okay?

Whoever I was then, I can’t ever be again.


Forgiving, forgetting, and the art of leaving. Beneath the palm trees and the big bright yellow sun. Mesmerized by the whites of the sand and the big blue sea, I could get lost here forever. Drink after drink, night after night, lost. It was the art of letting go and leaving that catapulted the journey to the sandy white beaches of South Beach. It was the art of forgiving that brought me to the streets of Miami. But forgetting, where do I forget? Where do I lose sight of the realities amongst the sun drenched streets and picture perfect perfection? Perhaps, another drink. Another drink to forget and be swallowed whole by the sun and lost in the shade under the palm trees. This was my forgiving, this was my forgetting and this was my leaving.


I didn’t think about you and I didn’t think about me. I didn’t think about much of anything. Dancing the night away under the stars and hearing the roaring sounds of the ocean hitting the sands. I could have kissed a hundred boys under the street lights of that city. I could have. Maybe I did, honestly I can’t remember. All I know is when the morning sun woke, I was clean. You forget who you are when you’re in the sun. You forget that your past is left in the dark to it’s own demise. At least that’s what I thought. The light and the warmth of the sun, the sands of the beaches and their beautiful swaying palm trees, why would anyone want to remember the past? I can still feel it. I can still hear it. I can still see it. Everything. The light, the sounds, and this notion that I found this escape from reality if only for a short time.


There was no one else. Nothing that made me crave the sun as much as I felt it in Miami. No place better to forget then running away the picture perfect sights of South Beach. The street lights bright as the sun and the sun warmer than I could remember. I just need that escape. That one last time to forget it all. That one last drink to solve all my problems. All of it. Every single damn one of it.

Miami, Please take me back.

The comfort in there’s no one else.


A little back and forth lately.

I’ve been thinking about the ocean lately. Not in the classic summer way where thinking of beaches and warmer weather would make sense in this cold weather. But thinking of sand, water, and freezing cold temperatures. I miss the sounds of the ocean that I can’t hear from a bridge or from a window of an airplane. I miss digging my feet into the sand and staring off into the distance. I miss living near large masses of water. Water that I can see and touch whenever I feel like it. I am totally weird. Only a crazy person would think of the ocean when it’s freezing.

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In a way thinking of the ocean is just my way of wanting an escape. Wishing that people felt that way too. I get so consumed with other peoples ideas that I start to believe that they’re my own thoughts. Its been a while since I found people to connect with, people that are adventurous and not afraid of change. People that don’t want to go to the same boring places and actually want to venture out in different directions. We are so consumed with familiarity that going anywhere else seems like a hassle. I hate routine and I hate having to go to the same places because people are afraid of getting out of their comfort zone. I blame my area, I blame the central valley, most of all I blame people afraid of change. Then again I blame myself for not having the courage to venture off on my own. I could do it on my own, but like everyone else I too am afraid of a little change.

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To be honest with myself, I have to be honest with everyone else. I am scared. I am self-conscious. I am a lot of things in between. It’s so easy to want change from others but why is it often hard to seek change in ourselves. I want adventures, I want to experience new things, but I also want others to feel the same way too. It could just be the simple minded surroundings of my areas. Everyone’s lazy attempts at life, but at times I am no different. I want the ocean but I don’t want the journey that goes with seeing the ocean. I want the world to bend over backwards for me, but I can’t even lift a finger when the universe asks me to. I want the rain, but I settle for the drought. I want, I want, and I want, but I can’t seem to get myself started. I know to change things within ourselves we have to start small. Small victories before feeling victorious. I just can’t help but expect this huge change to start happening now. I am impatient for big changes and not realizing small changes are victories too.

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I want to get to the ocean before the weather starts getting warmer. I want to place my feet in the freezing cold waters and feel whole again. I want the ocean because somewhere deep inside I need the change. I need a change in scenery. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, all I know is that it will happen someday soon.




All the pretty girls.

He was a master of taking hearts but no hearts were ever broken. I never cried for him, I don’t believe anyone else did either. Not that I was aware of, not that I even cared. But the girls like moths flocked to his light. Always all the pretty girls with broken prides and promises. A master of disguise and a gentleman with charming words that entrances even the darkest of hearts. The light that over shadows the illusion of right from wrong. Speaking the words they longed to hear, always there for the taking. Never giving much of anything, but paid no mind taking the countless of hearts that graced his path. A heart lined path that were prized like trophies.

He was so fucking cool.

It was the impression that he gave that made us all wonder. The talking salesman that spoke the words but never cared enough about what the words would mean. His appearance was nothing more than smoke and mirrors, an illusion everyone wanted but nobody could ever attain. The girls knew in the end they were lies but couldn’t help but be wooed in the play. It was always just a play. Just another game that no one ever bothered to win. He won, he lost, most times he just broke even. At least in his mind. The lies out weighed the words and sometimes people would get hurt. Sometimes, but not all the time. He failed to mention certain aspects of his life and in the end everything would come tumbling down. At least that’s what we all wanted. We waited for the demise of the smooth talking man with the cool demeanor. His smooth talking ways would save the world if it could, instead it saved his performance and again he went on his way.

You are so cool.

We all had our part to play. We all had our purpose. All the pretty girls knew to imagine it was over. Don’t believe the gentleman in the sharp suit and the cool talking ways. She knew it all but as silly as girls are believed every lie to be truth. Silly girls believe anything if there’s a feeling involved. Silly girls would drop everything before they fall. Silly girls are silly to believe in the charms of a salesman feeding them lies. We knew it. We all knew it. But we couldn’t help but be silly and foolish in the webs of these lies. We wanted to be the cool girls. The cool girls that could play their part. The cool girls that could match wits with the cool gentleman in the sharp suit. Instead we were all stupid silly girls. Stupid, stupid girls. It wasn’t love, it was lust. It wasn’t fun, it was funny. It was nothing more than a game that we were all sure to lose. No hearts were broken, no hearts were lost. Still he carried our hearts like trophies through paths. The path of victory to the path of our own foolish sorrow. We were all stupid in falling again. Why does this keep happening? Who is the next victim in this play? The play that’s a game and it ends with a loss. What did we lose in the end if it wasn’t our hearts? Just our pride with our dignity in the shameful deceit.

Stupid, silly, girl.

The games are over on my part but I know he still plays. I can’t help but wonder about him from time to time. He liked to talk to all the pretty girls. All the pretty girls at the bar. Sometimes, I want to ask him “Do you still talk to all the pretty girls and lie about all the other girls?”. Is the game still worth the thousands of hearts in your path? Does she know your lies better than the bed you can’t make? I already know all the answers. She makes your bed better than the words that you say. She knows all your lies and still plays all your games. She’s the cool girl in the wave of all the silly stupid girls. But you can’t help but talk to all the pretty girls.

It was always all the pretty girls.

It’s all about the price tag.


There is no word more frightening to person dealing with debt then the word “SALE”.  While “sale” to the average person means saving a buck or two, to a person with debt it means throwing money away on unnecessary items. I would know, I have fallen victim to the sale trap on multiple occasions. Actually to be completely honest, I have once again fallen victim to the trap! How can anyone say no to 50% off? How can anyone say no to promo codes and coupons? I know very well, I don’t need the items, but I want them.

There we go.

I don’t “need” the items but I “want” them. Are we seeing a pattern here?

The problem with sales isn’t in the saving of money, its in this uncontrollable urge to have everything. There is no knowledge of self control when a sale is involved. Think I am lying? When was the last time you walked into a store that was having a sale and didn’t see people walk out with shopping bags full of items? Yup, NO SELF CONTROL. I obviously do not believe in self control. I don’t. If I see an item that is regularly priced for X amount of money, I don’t purchase it (SEE! I am getting better!). However, if I see the same item 50% off, I purchase it. I mean at half the price, they’re practically giving it away right?


For every 50% off, I end up paying more then my fair share. While the illusion is to save money on multiple items, the reality is I am spending money on everything. I do know my limits in regards to items I could purchase. However, if I am seeing that I am saving money, I will spend the money. Which defeats the purpose of saving money. I want to save money. I need to pay off debts, but with all these annual, semi-annual, blockbuster sales, they are not helping the cause. I know it’s great to reward and indulge every once in a while but it’s a revolving door of unwanted purchases. All of which I don’t need. I have a hard time coming to the conclusion of not needing the items. Somewhere deep inside comes the need to have them. I need them. I need them because I can’t live without them. When you throw a temporary price cut on top of that, that’s when the problems happen.

Truth is I am doing very well with handling my finances. It’s these tiny temptations that come in all shapes and sizes. While I have stopped emotional spending, I just can’t get over the “sale” hurdle. I know very well I don’t need these items. I know that. I have even gone as far as getting rid of a majority of things in my closet. I just can’t bring myself to let go of a “good” deal. These deals that seem too good to be true. I find myself trapped between sale prices and free shipping. That I am actually saving money because I didn’t leave my house to purchase these items. It’s an ongoing dilemma that while I have rid myself of all the things I don’t need, I need to purchase things to make up for it. Sure they don’t cost as much as all the original items I had, but here’s 4 more at the fraction of the cost. It’s got to stop.

I told myself I would be strong. That I would stop purchasing things I didn’t need and focus on the mountains of things I do have. The whole point of being financial stable is to come to a point in your life that you don’t need those items. Sure an item here or there is fine, but every other week? It’s time to finally put the wallet away. Time to get rid of the things I don’t need anymore. More importantly, stop throwing away my money on things I believe are a “good” deal.


If only that was easy.

Ellie – 1
Sales – 25