A post that’s more tRuthful than tasty:
I’m not sure.
I’m not sure whether I should stop blogging for lack of inspiration, or keep blogging in search of more.
I’m not sure whether I should go to bed before 10pm and wake up feeling like a dignified working adult, or stay up past midnight and feel like a dignified twenty-something.
I’m not sure if using lattes as fuel for whipped cream is acceptable (but I do).
I’m not sure what I want to “be,” or if I’ll ever settle for a career, or if I’d be happy not settling.
I’m not sure how the other pairs of retired shoes stay so nicely strung around the power lines, while mine disappeared after two weeks.
I’m not sure if ever I’ll love my Jay-Z station on Pandora (but I’ll never stop trying).
I’m not sure when it’s better to settle, and when it’s better to push into the unknown in hopes of finding something greater.
I’m not sure how much you’d have to pay me to wear a pair of high heels.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to recover the softness I brought with me to New York; that better side of myself.
I’m not sure if my hanging tomato plant will survive the chilling temperatures, the ungracious neighbors, the constant drought I make it endure.
I’m not sure why good people get sick.
I’m not sure if the new residents of my old house ever found the note I hid before I moved out.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to open my heart as widely as I’d like to.
I’m not sure I’ll ever allow myself to hear the answers I’m searching for.
I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stand my roommate putting the toilet paper roll on the opposite way.
I’m not sure how I got so lucky.
I’m just not sure.