Hi.
I’m Carlie. I write about things so I stop obsessing over them & then I obsess over the things I write.
I’m Carlie. I write about things so I stop obsessing over them & then I obsess over the things I write.
We’d been traveling for around 40 minutes when I found myself falling into a pattern of staring directly into the cars that passed us on the highway. While staring through their cars and into their souls, I couldn’t help but wonder about all these seemingly normal people. Where are all these people going? What are they thinking? What does it all mean? Do they know how much I need to poop?
I wanted ice cream, and I wanted it bad. Maybe it was a hormonal craving, but that’s not the point. What matters is that I wanted ice cream and I couldn’t find the slightest glob anywhere. So, being the emotionally stable adult woman that I am, I cried.
It's 2 a.m. and I'm laying awake in a dark room thinking about the damage done by a new haircut. I left the salon with my hair mostly straightened, yet unnaturally flipped out at the ends. Think Sarah Michele Gellar in the 90s or the infamous Rachel Green haircut. The anxiety of it all was just too much. Have I ever even liked a haircut? The answer is unclear.
If you listen to my father, my name was supposed to be Charlie, just like his. My parents had an agreement — since they named their first child after my mother, their second would be named after my father. I owe my constant identity crises to them.
