This is a quick heads-up that I will cease to care about anything or anyone else on the planet this Friday except for the four-part revival of “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix. Here are just a few things the existence of which I will forget about for six full hours:
My failed high-protein diet(s)
My unkempt eyebrows
Neo-nazis (see above)
Deep dish pizza vs. regular pizza
Daylight Savings Time
Zucchini noodles aka “zoodles”
The oceans (all)
The continents (all)
1066 (I know stuff happened but I forget most of it anyways blah blah England)
Most of History
Whatever generation I am
Non-fat Greek yogurt
Your racist uncle
Birth control methods (all)
Indiana (included in above “red states” but I want to forget it twice)
The New York Times
Sort-of-real-maybe news, but it was retweeted by Joss Whedon so who knows?
All birds, really
Whether or not there is a God(s)
Whether my direct deposit for work will kick in soon
The fact that we are all, as Dickens said, fellow passengers to the grave
Why? Because after this year, I deserve this ONE THING, OKAY? WE ALL DO! JUST THIS ONE THING! SIX HOURS! FOUR NINETY-MINUTE EPISODES! PLEASE JUST LET US HAVE THIS, UNIVERSE!
Look, there have been a gazillion pieces on how even if someone voted for Trump for “non-racist” reasons, they still voted for racism. If you don’t buy it after folks like Scalzi break it all down for you in the easiest-to-understand terms, you’re not going to buy it from me, so I’m not going to write another one here.
There have also been a gazillion pieces written on the Electoral College (google it). I fucking hate the Electoral College, since it basically means my California vote is worth less than, say, a Wyoming vote because something something rural Real America(TM) slave state history blah blah blah. So I’m not gonna write one here, either.
Don’t even get me started on the gazillion pieces about how the left needs to understand Trump voters more because blah blah blah. I get it; many of them are losing traditional jobs that aren’t coming back because #robots and they’re mad, but many of them are also assholes who hate that they had to see a black dude on TV for 8 years and sure as fuck weren’t gonna look at an old lady for that long even if she’s white. You can guess where I come down on that argument so I’m not gonna write my own take here either.
So here’s what I have to say: ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything. The next four years are going to be apocalyptic. I’m especially excited for the inevitable Pence presidency, because, let’s get real, our Cheeto-Elect is not gonna last more than a year, tops. He’s never had to do any actual work in his life, and he’s just now realizing that the Presidency involves reading and sitting still and receiving criticism and not staying in Trump Tower among his gold-plated accessories unless he ventures out to grab him some fresh pussy. He’s going to resign, and if not he will be impeached, because the GOP would vastly prefer working with Pence (ugh) and, let’s face it, Mr. Cheeto has already committed about a zillion impeachable offenses and will accumulate more in his first five days in office than Nixon managed in five years. Pence hates gay people and women especially and is going to do his fucking utmost to take away our rights, so that’s gonna be GREAT.
And then there’s the worst part: the violence and harassment against minorities. This violence has existed for centuries, duh, but now it’s been validated in the mainstream by the dude who’s gonna be president. People are fucking scared. Hundreds of incidents a day have been reported since Nov. 8: women randomly getting grabbed walking down the street, Muslim women having their hijabs ripped off, black people called n****** who should “go back to Africa” (because it’s not like our white ancestors dragged their black ancestors from Africa against their will in chains, but okay, sure), anyone who looks vaguely Hispanic threatened with deportation (not that anyone should be threatened with deportation, but I’m almost tickled by racists who can’t tell the difference between someone of Asian descent or Mexican descent).
Also the environment is over and maybe there will be a nuclear war and Marie Le Pen will be elected and I can’t shop at Macy’s anymore and I’m a privileged-yet-depressed white bitch and I hate myself.
Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything.
Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything.
Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything. Also something about safety pins?
Okay. Thanks for listening. Now let’s do some shit.
I haven’t written in a long time because I was job-hunting. I have a new job now. So yeah, I’m back.
And this is my election post for the day (also found on FB).
Last night I was despondent. For a few moments, my depression reared its head in the ugliest way. I barely slept.
This morning, I realized a few things:
I am white
I am well-educated
I have an amazing job with amazing benefits
I have an amazing support system
I am cis-het
I live in California
Barring a national overturning of Roe v. Wade or an uptick in assault on women in general nationwide, my rights and I are ok for the foreseeable future. Which is why it is now my job to fight for others.
For people of color, ESPECIALLY women of color
For those who don’t have the chance to go to college
For the unemployed, under-employed, and disabled
For the uninsured or those soon to be uninsured
For the poor
For the LGBT community
For people in places like Flint (STILL NO CLEAN WATER Y’ALL) and Ferguson and Standing Rock.
If you are like me and you enjoy many tremendous privileges, it is also your time to fight.
In municipal politics
In state politics
In national politics
In our communities
In our homes
I’m scared tbh. But I know I’m not nearly as scared as those in the marginalized groups above. So it’s on me. It’s on us (that mostly means you, white people).
I start by setting up a monthly donation to Planned Parenthood, which will be crucial to the well-being of women and girls and even men in the coming months and years if the ACA goes down. And then I research my next steps.
FYI: If you think it’s totally okay for private citizens to be able to purchase semi-automatic assault rifles easily in the United States, you might as well go find another blog post to read because you will not like this one. Have fun!
So here we are again. The worst mass shooting in modern American history. At least 50 dead, dozens more injured, countless families destroyed, law enforcement in Orlando stretched so thin they can barely handle it, endless twitter and facebook posts with prayers for the dead and injured, Presidential speeches and political rants.
Prayers and thoughts are nice, but they aren’t keeping AR-15s out of the hands of evil assholes, misogynists, terrorists, and homophobes like this asshole who did this today. They aren’t teaching our children to resolve feelings of anger and hatred in therapy instead of with violence, or to see all humans as worthy of respect and life even if they are different from them.
Here’s some shit I am doing now in light of this and other mass shootings. If you think that human life is more important than some asshole’s need to carry his AR-15 to the Chipotle or some douchebag’s discomfort at possibly having to pee in a shitty Target bathroom next to someone whose birth certificate says a different gender than the one they currently identify with or some religious fanatic’s fear of the power and value inherent in women and LGBT individuals’ existences, I hope you’ll do some of it, too.
Donate: I’ve just donated a small amount each to these two organizations:
Fund for Victims of Pulse Shooting via Equality Florida (
GoFundMe): https://www.gofundme.com/PulseVictimsFund. Equality is the official LGBT civil rights org in Florida and they’ll be working with their attorneys and other organizations to distribute these funds to the victims and their families.
The Coalition to Stop Gun Violence: a decades-old organization dedicated to common sense gun control and ending gun violence! http://csgv.org/
Obviously there are other organizations as well, but these are just a couple, so if you have a spare $1 or $10 or $100 give to groups who are fighting common-sense gun control.
I followed @igorvolsky on Twitter; he is the Deputy Director for the Center for American Progess action fund. He is tweeting the names of members of Congress who have accepted money from the NRA so you know who NOT to vote for in November or future elections if you care about stopping these mass shootings regardless of motivation.
This article also details the members of Congress (mostly Republicans, but some Dems in there too!) who voted AGAINST the act to include perceived gender, sexual orientation, gender identity, and disabilities as protected classes under existing federal hate crimes law. The law passed, but not easily. If your Senator or Representative is on this list, and you give a shit about LGBT and disabled people, do not vote for these asshats in the future, and call them up and tell them why!
Vote based on this information:
This Fall, I’m voting for Democrat Hillary Rodham Clinton for President of the United States, not only because she is NOT a giant sentient Cheeto with a yellow wig who spews racist bullshit on Twitter every 3.5 hours and wants to have sex with its daughter, but because I strongly agree with her on many issues- especially women’s reproductive rights and gun control. She has an F rating from the NRA, which is the best failing grade someone can get if you ask me!
I’m a California voter, and so will also be voting in the Fall for Democrat Kamala D. Harris for US Senator to replace retiring Senator Barbara Boxer. Her opponent in the race is also a Democrat, Loretta Sanchez, but Sanchez voted in 2005 FOR a bill that would shield gun manufacturers from responsibility in some lawsuits when gun sales result in tragedy. Sorry, Sanchez, that was one mistake you’re not gonna live down with this voter!
That’s just me; whatever state or district you live in, use the information in the section above and your own research to vote for candidates who support making and enforcing laws that will keep assault rifles, which are, you know, for ASSAULTING PEOPLE and not to hunt quails or whatever because COME ON, out of the hands of dangerous people. Also vote for candidates who speak of all people, regardless of race, ethnicity, gender/gender orientation, sexual preference, age, etc. with respect. People don’t pick up an assault rifle, a pistol, a knife, or even their fists in a vacuum. The Planned Parenthood Shooter spoke of “baby parts” after storming a Colorado PP and killing three people, including a police officer; according to some reports, the piece of shit who murdered fifty people this morning was angered by seeing two men kiss in Miami months ago and had a history of domestic violence. That kind of homophobia and misogyny and anger isn’t all innate; these messages are reinforced by both private figures in our lives and, yes, public figures, too. What our elected officials say matters. When someone insinuates that all gay people are evil sinners, or all abortion providers are murderers, or all Mexicans are rapists, or all black people are thugs, or all Muslims are terrorists–people listen to this shit, and it poisons them. We can’t control what a given individual learns in their home growing up or from their friends or their place of worship, but we can control, to a certain extent, what our elected officials say to their constituents and their children. Vote for people who don’t say racist, homophobic, misogynistic, or other terrible shit.
So that’s what I’m doing and thinking. What are you doing? Seriously, if there are major things I’m missing, please tell me, because I want to do more. I’m sort of tipsy from drinking anger-wine tonight to dull the pain of this shitty world, but I’m fired up and want to do things because I am sick of this. I don’t even know if I’m going to have kids, but if I do, I want them to grow up in a better country and world. I also know there’s a huge mental health angle to all this, but it’s something that’s hard for me to tackle because I HAVE a mental illness and there’s so much to unpack with that all I can say for now is that the vast majority of people with mental illness do not hurt anyone and are non-violent (the same way that the vast majority of Muslims or white guys or anti-abortion people do not ever hurt anyone). That being said, it’s still something to discuss–I just don’t know how to do it tonight. If anyone has any resources, I would love to read them.
Finally, I’m just so, so, so sorry for the victims in Orlando and their families and friends, and for the global LGBT community. I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I have been dealing with a lingering depressive/anxiety episode, and it wasn’t getting much better, and then someone shared this on one of my fave comment boards: it is a LIVE WALRUS CAM! YOU CAN WATCH THE WALRUSES ALL SUMMER LONG 24/7! THIS IS AMAZING!
This is a live feed of the walruses, who are doing some really good walrusing (?) in Round Island, Alaska all summer. Per Science(TM), the walruses congregate here to chill, basically, when they’re not having sex, which is in the winter. According to Wikipedia, it’s called a “haul out,” but I’m going to go ahead and call it “Walrus Netflix & Chill,” but without the requisite binge-watching of Arrested Development (seasons 1-3 only, because S4 was middling at best). They basically spend a lot of time sleeping and sometimes swimming around with their friends before sleeping more. They are adorable and I love them and they have entirely cured me of depression.
Okay, so that’s not true, but they are just GREAT, and how cool is it that I can watch these walruses and listen to their walrus sounds and watch them as they walrus from the comfort of my bedroom in HD? What a great time to be alive, so go FUCK YOURSELF, DEPRESSION! WITNESS THESE WALRUSES, AND BEGONE!
Friday morning, I took my usual walking route in Golden Gate Park around Stow Lake, and there was a great deal of #nature happening. I was particularly impressed by the minimum twenty-five (possibly more) sunbathing turtles I saw every ten feet or so around the edge of the lake:
It was an unusually sunny morning, and these turtles were OWNING life. They just sat on or next to each other, motionless, and soaked up the sun, completely oblivious to the crowds of tourists snapping pictures of them. They were basically a posse of Victoria’s Secret models on a beach vacation with Leo DiCaprio, but less narcissistic and more sober. There were also flowers and a fountain in the park, and it was overall just a gorgeous day.
Then came Sunday, which was Bay to Breakers. B2B is San Francisco’s annual footrace/drunken walking orgy. It is like Halloween on crack, and when I went to the local market to buy cucumbers (I ran out, and I really like them, OKAY?), there were so many people on the streets in varying degrees of undress and intoxication and body-painted-ness that I started having a major panic attack and barely managed to stumble home, shaking, in time to take a xanax. I passed out, and when I woke up several hours later, I immediately thought back to last Friday and those turtles, and how calm and zen they made me feel. Those turtles have life DOWN, you know? I mean, the sun comes out, and they just swim over to the nearest available log or stone and chill out with their buddies. Why can’t I be like that? Well, I guess I don’t live in a man-made lake in a protective shell, and, like, I am a sentient life form who requires income to survive, but you get what I mean. Why can’t I just take a page from their leathery, slow-moving book of turtle-y life and chill out once in a while?
Anxiety, alas, does not that work that way. We all need some degree of anxiety to survive–even the turtles must experience something akin to a fear response when a turtle predator, like…a lion (???) approaches–but for those of us whose anxiety is triggered more easily by a variety of factors, it can be a huge liability.
I’m lucky, though–my anxiety is mostly manageable with therapy, drugs, sleep, drugs, exercise, and the support of family and friends…and drugs. I know many of you fight the good fight with these and all the other tools you can muster, and I salute you. I wish for you and for myself that, in the midst of all the nuttiness that daily life throws at us, every once and a while we get to be these sunbathing turtles, posing for tourists on a log, our reptilian faces turned craned up towards the sky. Happy Monday, Turtles!
Please leave your thoughts in the comments, especially if you are a turtle, because your perspective would really be appreciated here and also it would be pretty cool if you guys learned how to use the internet. 🐢
Yesterday, it was twenty degrees out and snowing (IN EFFING APRIL), my broken foot was aching from the cold, and I was stuck in my parents’ house. I tried writing and failed because my head was foggy from weather-induced depression. The family dog, also suffering from cabin fever, was determined to spend the entire day either licking my nose or biting my right forearm (not sure why my arm and nose are yummier than other parts of my body) in spite of every treat, game, or other scheme designed to distract her. I was PMSing and on the constant verge of tears. So, after a few hours of trying to be productive and positive, I gave up on and decided I was going to bake an AMAZING and BEAUTIFUL chocolate cake with cream cheese icing from scratch, because IT WAS AN APRIL SNOWSTORM OF DEATH, SCREW EVERYTHING.
The cake itself turned out beautifully; the icing was easy to prepare and tasted great. Then I tried to put the icing on the cake, and it turned out like this:
I don’t know what happened, but every time I tried to apply icing to the surface of the cake, it, like, tore the top of the cake up. I tried a knife, a spatula, a spoon, my fingers–it was all a bust. So, after mangling my beautiful cake with ill-applied icing for ten minutes, I gave up and began to cry.
Now, I realize that crying over a badly-iced cake is…not rational. But I was SO tired of the day, and my aching foot, and my foggy winter-in-April brain, and all I wanted was to PRESENT A PRETTY CAKE TO MY FAMILY AND EAT IT FRONT OF THE SAD-EYED, HUNGRY DOG AS RETRIBUTION FOR HER NIPPING AT ME ALL DAY! WAS THAT REALLY TOO MUCH TO ASK, UNIVERSE?
My mom, engaged in reading on her Kindle, basically rolled her eyes at my temper tantrum, and I snapped, “OH, FUCK IT!” and spooned a glob of cake-and-icing into a bowl and took a bite.
It was delicious. My parents had some for dessert and loved it, and the dog looked at us all as we ate with a satisfying mix of envy and yearning in her eyes (HA, DOG, THAT IS WHAT YOU GET).
As I sit here typing this and eating more of my leftover mangled cake, I realize that yesterday I WAS this cake: messy and ugly, but yummy inside. I took a useless, gross, bad-mood day and tried to make something good of it. We all do this–some of us more often than others–and the results are mixed. Sometimes we rally and create a beautiful masterpiece, complete with vanilla fondant and sugar roses. Sometimes, our best achievement is a shower and clean pajamas, and store-bought cake if we’re lucky. Most often, though, we end up somewhere in the middle, with a delicious chocolate-and-cream-cheese glob of almost-but-not-quite greatness to show for our efforts. All of these outcomes are okay, because despite the messy icing, we are all sugary goodness underneath.
Today, the sun’s out, and the cake will be gone soon if its current rate of consumption continues unabated, as will the snow. I hope you make the best cake you can today 🙂
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post; please leave a comment below, or share or like if you’re so inclined!
Be warned: this is an honest post about depression and self-harm, so don’t read if that is not what you need right now.
Tonight was not a great night. Depression combined with PMDD combined with injury combined with rain combined to form a cocktail of true shitty-ness.
I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before, but I have an intermittent history of self-harm. My depression and anxiety kick in, I get angry and disgusted with myself, and instead of just crying or shouting or hitting something else, I hit myself, usually in the head or leg, or both, to the point of bruising. Obviously, this is not good.
Tonight I was thoroughly convinced that I was a mean, fat, disgusting, stupid, lazy, weak-willed, worthless, uncouth, ungrateful, shallow, timid, and boring person, all at the same time. The cognitive dissonance required to think all of these things about myself at the same time was pretty impressive, but the result was not–I hit myself for the first time in probably over a year.
Besides the physical pain I caused myself, I also caused my mother, who saw me do it, emotional pain. I feel awful, and thinking about her distress brings tears of guilt as I type. But I am also grateful to her for helping me calm down and redirect the urge to hurt myself into actual discussion of my feelings, which she often shared when she had PMDD in her twenties and thirties. I’m grateful that she hugged me and dried my tears and told me she loved me. I’m grateful that she forgave me for the fear and hurt I made her feel by hurting myself.
I am lucky that I wasn’t alone.
I’m still somewhat stuck in a depressive a black hole, but my mother’s being present with me tonight was like a tiny sliver of light in that darkness. So I want to pass it on, right now, before I lose my nerve and delete this post:
If you are in despair tonight and there is no one there to comfort you, you are still not alone. There are millions of people who are with you. I am one of them. Even if no one is there to physically hug you and tell you that you are worthwhile, I will tell you now: you are not alone. You are a good person. How you are feeling is temporary, but whether this feeling lasts one hour or one day or one week or one month, you are NOT alone.
This is the top drawer of my bedside table, a.k.a. the “med drawer”:
This is where I keep the stuff that most folks organize neatly in a medicine cabinet. Mostly, it’s full of your typical and over-the-counter remedies: ibuprofen, pepto bismol, benadryl, cold medicine. It’s also where I keep my meds for anxiety, depression, and migraines. It’s a necessary, if messy, drawer. Usually, I open this drawer at night to take my daily medications without so much as a thought; it’s automatic, an action I’ve taken every night for years.
Sometimes, however, I really fucking hate opening that drawer. This week is one of those times.
I’ve been on some sort of daily medication to treat anxiety and depression pretty consistently since I was sixteen, which makes fifteen years of me opening this drawer (or its previous incarnations at my parents’ house and other apartments and dorms) every night. I’m incredibly grateful for this drawer, for the drugs in it (which have changed over the years several times–if you want to talk about the benefits and drawbacks of prozac vs. zoloft vs. lamictal vs. lexapro vs. a couple others I don’t remember at this point, I’m your gal) and for the doctors and therapists and friends and family members who have helped me get my shit together and get the help and medication I need to treat my anxiety and depression.
And yet, right now, I really hate that fucking drawer.
I hate that I have to cut my lexapro doses into little quarters as I wean off a higher “winter” dose to treat SAD (seasonal affective disorder). I hate the bitter taste of the pill residue that gets caught in my throat sometimes when I don’t cut the pills perfectly. I hate the fact that that higher dose made me incredibly drowsy in the afternoons for two months and eliminated my libido. I hate that these pills make it hard for me to lose weight and even, sometimes, to experience joy. I hate the fact that I rely, to some extent, on a pill to make myself “normal,” if there is such a thing.
I know that these feelings are valid–and likely temporary. I also know that there are alternatives to medication that I may try down the road in addition to my current therapy regimen. I also know that if I decide to try those methods and they work, that’s great. I also know that if I decide to try those methods and they don’t work, that’s okay, too, and meds will still be there and probably still be able to help me from falling into a non-functional depressive black hole.
I sincerely hope no one thinks that I’m saying meds are inherently bad or that no one should take them; I don’t think that at all. If you are feeling low, and especially if you are thinking of harming yourself, please go get help, and if a doctor or therapist thinks meds will help, consider their advice seriously. I’m also not advocating that anyone take meds if they truly feel they aren’t working for them. Basically, I’m the non-judgmental ninja over here, promise!
All I’m doing is sharing with you that, for whatever reason, this week I’m just tired of the process.I’m tired of opening that drawer. I think it’s okay to be tired sometimes. It’s okay to hate the drawer and to feel grateful for it at the same time. I hope, if you have a drawer, you know that, too.
Occasionally, despite my college education and now 31+ years of experience living as a Human on the Planet Earth, I make a Life Error™ so gargantuan that it shakes the very fiber of my being and makes me doubt whether I am worthy of success, happiness, or love.
I order self-assembly furniture online.
I know, I know, but it wasn’t my fault! I am A WRITER, DAMN IT, and writers need desks. I could write while sitting at my kitchen table, but it’s cold in the kitchen. I can also go to a coffee shop, but a coffee is two bucks MINIMUM and it’s much cheaper to just make coffee at home. The obvious solution was a small-ish desk that fits into the bay window nook in my warm-ish bedroom with the cheap homemade coffee only feet away!
So I went on Wayfair and ordered a desk. Five days later, the desk arrived. And thus began my descent to the ninth level of hell, where I joined Brutus, Judas, and…Cassius (is he the third guy? too lazy to google) in being chewed in the giant maw of Satan.
The process began auspiciously when the FedEx guy cheerfully offered to haul the giant desk-containing box up three floors to my apartment. I immediately set out to assemble the desk, whereby I rediscovered Jackie’s Foolproof Process for Furniture Assembly and Losing Your Soul:
Using a knife, cut through the tape along the edges of the box.
Attempt to open box, and discover that there are apparently three more layers of taped-up cardboard between you and the desk.
Hack through these layers while dripping sweat everywhere. Finally remove all the cardboard to discover the furniture is encased in a sarcophagus of styrofoam, which is all stuck together with a kind of tape that is probably used to seal airlocks on the International Space Station.
Hack at the styrofoam, getting bits of it all over your apartment and inhaling a good 20% of it into your lungs.
After 30 minutes of chopping at styrofoam, reveal the desk. Take a water and stretch break and realize that if you can’t open a box without getting breathless that you might want to sign up for the gym.
Using the included mini toolkit, attach the four legs to the desk. Easy peasy! You’re 90% done- the last step is attach the knobs to the two little drawers that are built into the desk.
You go to pull out the drawer. The drawer falls apart in your hand:
Ok, you can fix it! Get out your hammer and nails to see if you can cobble the drawer back together.
OH MY FUCKING GOD HOW DID I HAMMER THREE FINGERS ON MY RIGHT HAND ALL AT ONCE OH GOD OH GOD IT HURTS AGHHHHH!!
Breathe through the pain, breathe through it. Ok. You’ve got this.
Go down the block to the local hardware store and buy superglue. Return home, glue the drawer back together, let it set for 20 minutes per instructions. Huzzah! It looks great! YOU ARE A GODDESS!
Lightly touch the drawer with one finger to test the strength of the superglue. The drawer explodes.
A single tear escapes your right eye. You remove the drawer and put the desk right-side up. The desk leg lands awkwardly and stubs your right toe.
You burst into tears because ARE YOU KIDDING ME I WENT TO YALE I SHOULD BE ABLE TO PUT TOGETHER A FUCKING BUCK FIFTY DESK AND MY HAND HURTS AND MY FOOT HURTS AND I’M SWEATY AND IT’S RAINING AND THERE’S STYROFOAM ALL OVER MY APARTMENT AND I’VE BREATHED FIVE POUNDS OF IT IN AND NOW I’M GOING TO DIE OF STYROFOAM LUNG CANCER WHY AM I EVEN TRYING TO BE ALIVE IF I’M TOO STUPID TO SCREW TOGETHER A FUCKING WAYFAIR DESK sob sob sob.
Call your mom, who is bewildered but manages to calm you down.
Ashamed at your outburst, you try to go online to request replacement drawers for your desk, only to discover that the new Comcast set-top box that Infinity made you install earlier that day has DESTROYED THE INTERNET and the only network in range is called “We Can Hear You Have Sex” but it’s fucking PASSWORD PROTECTED.
Remember that your phone has internet, and use that to request the parts. Ok, they’ll be here in a few days. It’s all good.
Go out to a friend’s open bar birthday party to destress and consume three of these:
Go home and vomit up everything you ever ate or drank, but because you’re an IDIOT you throw up in the shower and not the toilet, and so when you wake up at 3 am and go in the bathroom you discover that you have to clean up a hell of a mess. You go back to bed and at 6 am you clean up and hydrate and go to the laundromat when it opens to wash your vomity clothes. Call Comcast, fix the internet, and wait for your replacement drawers as you recover your dignity.
A few days later, the drawers arrive, in perfect condition! You replace them and the desk looks GREAT! HUZZAH! WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS OF THE WOOOOOORRRLD!
Decide to take a walk to celebrate. Pull out your headphones so you can listen to some TUNEZ while you traipse through the park.