My grandfather maintains that anyone who still bakes cakes from scratch is an egotistical moron. Who is he/she to see him/herself as superior to decades of research, test kitchens, and food science that all stand behind the great Betty Crocker/Duncan Hines/etc. boxed bake mixes? Elitist bastards, he says. Like you can do better.
Sometimes I feel the same way about psycho pharmacology/prescription drugs. You know… happy pills. Anti-anxiety meds. Hope in a child-proof plastic jar. Just when I’m standing on the threshold of guilt and hesitation (‘it’s the easy way out! I’m treating symptoms, not problems! More herbal tea/deep breathing! Cheater cheater pumpkin eater!’), I remember that this is my life.
And it’s real.
And it’s complicated.
And I’m trying.
And sometimes a girl just has to resort to a motherfucking xanax once in a blue moon and get over herself, you know?