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?