When I was five my best friends were a couple of rocks, or “pet rocks,” as my mom called them. I used to bathe them, brush them, name them and put them to bed every night. I had virtually no real friend.
My mom is very American in a stereotypical way. Blonde hair, blue eyes and freckles, wranglers, and country music. She used to strip and wore frosted blue eyeshadow. She says things like, “don’t worry, I cooked the shit outta that pork.” My dad, on the other hand, is a Persian immigrant, a traditional, opinionated human who pronounces “sprouts,” like “spirts,” and once told me that women loved him because he had, “the voice of the angels, baby.” I grew up in the middle of those two humans and I like to tell myself that it made me “well-rounded.”
My husband is Italian. I met him while studying in Italy. I was dancing on a table when I decided to aggressively hit on him by giving him my number and commanding him to call me, “next Thursday.” We’ve been married for five years. We have a poodle who we love but who is also an asshole.
I’m currently watching a video of a handicap goat frolick. I’m a big fan of handicap animals. And, I love the majestic Capybara. For one day, I will have one and he shall be named Dwayne.
I suffer from anxiety and depression (WEEE!) and sometimes I write about it. I’m big on self-care and wellness and I write about these things, too. Other things I write about: Depressing stories from my childhood, personal essays about growing up non-Mormon in Utah, and that one time I met my dad and my mom told me to “make sure he doesn’t take you to any airports.”