Lollapalooza ’14

I told you I’d eventually get to talking about my experience at Lollapalooza (more than a week later). It’s okay. If people on my Facebook newsfeed are still posting about it, then damn it so can I!

Now if only I could remember . . .

Duh, of course I can remember! Here are the best and worst (in no particular order) from Continue reading


Things I Don’t Understand About the War in the Middle East

Be prepared for lists and questions.

This post is strictly my opinion of things that are known, things that I think are known to be true (based on what I’ve read/seen online, information friends have told me, what I’ve learned in school, etc.), and things I don’t know. I’m looking to get answers and see other readers’–Jewish or Continue reading

“That Dirty Bitch [Grace]”–A Letter to Lady Gaga

Yes, I’m writing a post not related to the 30 Day Writing Prompt Challenge because, well, I want to. I’m a bad bitch and I can do whatever I want.

This past Friday, I went to the Lady Gaga concert at the United Center (in Chicago). I had been sitting on these tickets since December 2013, and the day had finally arrived and, to be honest, I wasn’t anymore excited than I was when I bought them.

Here’s another truth: I’m kicking myself for my lackluster attitude because the artRAVE was the best concert I had ever been to.

I’ll admit, I was underwhelmed at the beginning. I saw pictures of the artRAVE in other cities of people dressing up, and I just wasn’t getting excited. I didn’t even bedazzle my Judas bra until the night before. Not to mention the first opener was this:

I’ll admit (again) that I wasn’t too impressed, but hey, now I can’t get this song out of my head and I just wanna do a jump line with a bunch of people in a public setting. Good job, Crayon Pop! You’ve gotten into my head.

Lady+Starlight+Lady+Gaga+Born+Way+Bus+Tour+G-J-upTFFO8lWho really stole the opening show was Lady Starlight. Girlfriend (like she’ll ever read this, but we’ll pretend that she will), your outfit was flawless! Loved your blazer, loved your skirt, loved your sound, loved you. Your energy on stage was breathtaking. Most DJs just stand their with their hands up like their entitled to some godship, but you were feeling the soul of the beat and dancing along with us. It was absolutely fabulous! Did I already mention I love you?

Then, Lady Gaga made her appearance in all of her Mother Monster glory, and it was absolutely wonderful. And it’s the inspiration for this letter, to Lady Gaga (again, like she’ll ever read this, but again we’ll pretend that she will):

Dear Lady Gaga,Lady Gaga "The ARTPOP Ball" Tour Opener

I would like to apologize.

I never felt like a Little Monster. I would listen to your albums and your popular hits on the radio, but I never felt that connection that my friends and even my own mother felt . . . until I attended the artRAVE. I finally felt like I belonged. We were all different, but at that concert we all moved, danced, and sang along as one. We were all one.

It truly hit me when you sang “Born This Way” at the piano and you brought that guy up from the audience. I was in general admission up against the fence, and I looked into the sea of seats towering above me and in the front row was a man so touched by “Born This Way” that he was crying. We had a moment. We made eye contact, pointed at each other, and belted the lyrics out along with you. Two complete strangers feeling acceptance from one another in a sea of strangers. It was beautiful.

Even you said that people have called you strange–and you dislike the misuse of the word “ratchet”–and I too have been called strange my entire life. I never felt like I belonged. I was always the odd one out with the strange ideas and concepts I’d come up with. I was the weird girl, even at the artRAVE I was the weird girl, but I was finally accepted for the woman I am.

All in all, this letter is to thank you, Lady Gaga, for accepting me (as well as your other fans) for who I am and for encouraging all of us to be 1000% us. I now feel like a true Little Monster and I can’t wait until you come back to Chicago–by the way, I plan on taking my mom, a true Little Monster herself!

Whether you read this or not, Lady Gaga, just know I have so much respect for you now. I had a great time at the artRAVE, and I can’t to say what direction your art and music takes next!


Grace, the girl in the bedazzled Judas bra in GA stage right

P.S.: I’m jealous of that dirty bitch Diana, and Mario.

P.P.S.: If I were Lady Starlight, my “Lady Gaga,” my best friend for twenty-one years, is probably your biggest fan and best Little Monster in Chicago. It wouldn’t be loyalty if I didn’t tell you that she loves you and has dreams of working for you.

“Getting” Engaged vs. “Being” Engaged

[I know I write a lot about love and relationships, but bear with me. It’s what my life is. You write what ya know, ya know?]

One of my good friends, Angelica, is planning her wedding for next May. Not only that, but her and her fiance are looking at houses so that they will be able to start a family together right after the ceremony. It’s very touching and you can see the love they have for each other is set and strong, and I get to experience it all firsthand.

I’ve been to 6+ weddings (the count gets fuzzy, especially after I grew older and discovered what open bar really means), but this is the first time I actually get to stand up with the bride at the altar. That’s right, I’m a bridesmaid. Like any other bridesmaid, assumedly, I’m hoping my dress is somewhat adorable and that costs aren’t too high, but a girl can dream. In all seriousness, I’m very excited to be by Angelica’s side through all of the planning and preparations to make her special day everything she’s dreamed for.

After Angelica asked me to be her bridesmaid, her, I, and the other bridesmaid, Kiley, got together to discuss the timeline between now (which was April) and next May (2015). After our coffee cups had emptied and every detail was laid out by Angelica, we just began to talk . . . girl talk, if you will.

“I can’t wait to get married,” Kiley said. “My wedding is going to be so awesome even Pinterest is going to be jealous.”

“I hope so,” Angelica said. “If Ralph [her fiance] and I had the money, we would go all out, but it happens.”

“Well, they have a lot DIY stuff you can make to make things cheaper, you know?” Kiley added.

“I know, but I’m just happy to be marrying Ralph. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him,” Angelica confessed.

“I guess,” Kiley said. “But wouldn’t it be great to have an awesome wedding?!”


I found myself reading Nicki Lamont’s On Getting #Engaged and couldn’t help but remember this recent incident. Unfortunately, it’s not the first of its kind amongst my friend group.

Another good friend of ours (Angelica, Kiley, and myself), Ren, said something along the lines of having a huge wedding with all the glitz and glamour; the Wedding of the Century, as she called it.

“What do you want yours and Prince Eric’s to be like?” she asked me one time (again, of many) at lunch.

[Pet peeve: I hate dislike when people assume I’m going to marry Prince Eric. Yes, we’ve talked about it, on numerous occasions, and we’ve talked about a future together with kids, a minivan, and a house in the suburbs, but, to be a bit pessimistic, who knows what can happen from now. Don’t pull all of your eggs in one basket and hope to produce more from those. Disclaimer: I would love to marry Prince Eric because I think (keyword: think) he’s the one. We understand and love each other, and he’s my best friend. I can’t imagine life without him, and although that sounds like a dried out cliché, it’s true. But life keeps you on your toes, sometimes. I’m not putting all of my eggs in one basket.]

I sighed, out of annoyance, and replied: “What wedding?”

“Umm, only the one you’ve been planning since you were six!”

Wrong little six-year-old girl. “I’ve never really thought about it,” I admitted. “I would much rather elope and have an awesome honeymoon to share with my husband, but I guess if I had to have a wedding, it would be small and simple. The majority of the budget would probably go towards the honeymoon and maybe the dress.”

Her jaw dropped down to the Spanish tile floor. “What do you mean you’d rather elope?” She said the word like it was some killer disease that she was terrified of ever contracting. God forbid Ren and her future fiance ever think about eloping!

“You know, like going to a courthouse and having the judge marry us.”

“But, why?”

“Why not?” I asked back. “As long as I’m happy and in love with my fiance/future husband, why does it matter if I have the big gaudy wedding? I’d rather spend time with him than put our love on display for everyone to ooh and aah at.”

Lunch was cut short then (again, not the first time), but not before she asked to be a witness at my elopement.

Umm, no.


The difference between Kiley and Angelica, or Ren and me, is that one wants to get engaged desperately. They want to plan the wedding of their dreams, try on the perfect white dress the first time, and eat cake samples with their future hub in a boutique bakery. They want their wedding to be remembered, written in history books as the greatest wedding ever had on planet Earth. They want sparkles dangling from the ceiling with an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord with the finest meats and vegetables. They want a cake taller than the Sears Willis Tower, and popping DJ to whip the dancers on the dance floor back into shape. They want the best airbrushed pictures to look back on their special day, to remember the good time every guest had.

What Kiley and Ren lack in their pre-planned weddings is the love. Not once did they say they might cry when they see the love of their life standing at the altar waiting for them. Not once did they mention the first dance and how meaningful it will be to hear “their song” through the speakers. Not once did they mention the butterflies or the nerves. Not once did they mention of being engaged, and how it’s a state of mind, not an instant gratification.

Angelica can’t wait for her special day, mostly to share it with Ralph and her family and friends, but she’s happily engaged and she can’t wait to spend the rest of her life with the man of her dreams. Marriage is a long road, and her and Ralph are taking the long way; they still learn from each other and fall deeper in love everyday. It’s evident in their interactions and their affections. Their wedding will be more than the tossed bouquet or the decorations; their wedding will be a celebration of their love.

That’s the difference between getting engaged and being engaged.

Don’t put your all of your eggs in one basket. Rushing to the altar only to fulfill your six-year-old self’s extravagant desires isn’t going to bring you closer to your significant other.

I’m content with wanting to elope. Just have it be Prince Eric, a Cook County judge, and me in one room, and we’re set for our happily ever after. But first, I’ll need to be engaged.

Religious Rant

Loading controversial post in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1:

I can thank Catholic school for my new-found disbelief in Jesus Christ.

I’m not Agnostic. I wouldn’t say I’m an Atheist either. Let’s go with Theologist; I find religion exceptionally interesting and try to accept and learn from all religions, for educational and cultural purposes rather than beliefs.

Now how does this tie in with blaming Catholicism?


As I’m sure you can guess, I was born and raised Catholic. This came with a lot of responsibility: professional shirt tucker; altar serving at its finest; being able to pray the Rosary in English, Latin, and Spanish; remembering the saint you’re named after and all of the miracles he/she performed; attending parochial school; etc.

In my nine years at Catholic school, I never felt like I fit in and never did I feel the “love” of our Lord and Savior. Technically, I was the most religious: I sang every song at Mass, I prayed the loudest, and I did the Sign of the Cross after every Eucharist I received. And why? Because I was afraid of going to Hell. Shoot, at one point in my grade school career, I wanted to be a nun because that would definitely guarantee me a ticket into Heaven (and because boys had cooties)! I did all of these things to please Jesus and to save me from the Rapture, but not once did I feel anything.

We’d watch Jesus movies during Lent and kids in my class would cry, not because of the blood and guts, but because they felt the love of God for the first time. If there’s anything those movies gave me, it was a tolerance for Hollywood blood, occasional nightmares, and an “ugh, another crucifixion movie” attitude.

I always went through the motions of being a good Christian (and that might be the most controversial statement in this post), but never put any heart in it. Why? Because no matter how good of a person I am, I am going to be judged.

My friends and classmates judged me on my uniform and how I wasn’t “skinny enough” or “rich enough” to fit into/buy the Abercrombie and Fitch uniform flair bottoms. The priest judged the congregation on their attendance and almsgiving. My teachers judged me and automatically said I had no potential because I was quiet.

I could be the best Christian in the world, but no matter what I do, I’m going to be judged.


Why am I bringing this up, and why am I so harsh on Christianity?

Ryland Whittington, the little girl recently turned little boy. The press is either in favor of her and her parents’ heroic decision or disgusted by the fact that she is now a boy.

An acquaintance I went to college with just posted this post on her Facebook timeline: “This poor child is confused, not ‘transgendered.'” I read the article (actually, skimmed it would be the right term), but what I found more interesting than the article were the comments. You have on Christian posting a comment only to be replied to by a non-Christian, and then that’s replied to by a Christian defending the other Christian, which is then replied to by a non-Christian defending the other non-Christian . . . it’s a continuous ladder of defending one another and judging each other based on beliefs.

Honestly, who cares if Ryland’s a boy now. He’s six-years-old, let him live his life. It doesn’t concern you whether he ends up in Heaven or Hell, does it? Worry about yourself and your own quality of life.

He’s six-years-old. If Ryland wants to be a boy, let her be a boy. One of the commenters couldn’t have said it better:

Maybe [the Whittingtons] will regret it and maybe they won’t, but it is neither your right nor obligation as a human being to post judgement. ~Jenna

No matter what happens, we’re all going to be judged.

Rant over. Grace out.

I Know It’s Selfish, But . . .

My best friend, Flora, celebrated her 24th birthday yesterday by running a marathon where the proceeds went to cancer research. She’s a tough cookie, and I’m proud to say that she has been my best friend for (officially) twenty-one years. I know, crazy to believe that two toddlers could stick out a friendship past the terrible twos AND puberty. Bless our souls.

Flora and I had similar upbringings. Coming from very European families–as we call it “fresh off the boat,” literally–it was always instilled in our minds that we would grow up into this beautiful young housewives that would be married to successful European men (her’s would be Italian, mine would be German) and while hubby was working that 9-5, we’d cook, clean, and raise our equally Euro children the same way we were raised.

Um, no.

Flora is a year older than me and has always been my mentor and idol. I remember we’d play school where she’d be the teacher (because she was older) and I would be the student, and she’d actually give me copies of her math homework to do! It wasn’t her homework, per say, she’d have her teacher make a copy for me. Let’s just say I was always one step ahead of my grade, and, looking back on it, I can’t thank her enough. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have gone to college if she hadn’t gone first.

I was dead set on living the 50s housewife life. I remember one time, in second grade, our art project was to draw us in the profession of our choosing or desire. I drew a “mom,” a woman with her hair up, adorned with a pink apron and yellow rubber gloves, a feather duster in her left hand and a crying baby in her right . . . all with a smile on her face. On that quarter’s report card, my teacher said I lacked ambition; the rest of the year, she made me read books about scientists, firefighters, and any other daredevil job that every child would oooooh and aaaaah at. Not I (said the fly).

Flora really redefined what independence meant to me, especially when she ended her seven-year relationship with her high school sweetheart . . . seven years!!! I can only imagine that most women would feel lonely or lost (I know I would), but I think I was more upset than Flora was. Not only did she redefine independence for me then, but through her stories of travel and living on her own and paying for her own education. She showed me that I could be independent, too, and that I wasn’t limited to becoming a young bride/mother/housewife/all of the above. More so than those books in second grade, she showed me that I could be whatever I wanted to be.

Today (and especially recently), I see posts on Facebook of engagements and baby announcements, and the smiles on their faces in the pictures they post truly warm my heart . . . but these women, future mothers, and couples are so young. The youngest I know of is . . . eighteen. Shit, I’m a bridesmaid in my good friend’s wedding next year, and she’s twenty-two. Just last year I was twenty-two, and even now, at twenty-three, I’m still a little bit freaked out whenever a Say Yes To The Dress marathon comes on! Not because the dresses are absolutely gorgeous (and they are), but there’s so many things I want to do before the I dos.

Like traveling the world; I want to learn from different cultures, eat food I can’t get in Chicago (which is very tough, since Chicago is pretty much foodie central), and learn something from the vast world around me. I want to write a book about all of my experiences, and one about the made-up experiences that run through my imagination. I want to write a successful screenplay and watch my words be turned in the movie that played through my head while I wrote it. I want to bungee jump, since I was too terrified to do so in Australia . . . even though I went skydiving instead (#DoingItWrong). But I want to go skydiving again, too, and scream at the top of my lungs as I free fall through the clouds. I want to be absolutely terrified, but conquer my fears and live life to the fullest.

I want to be independent for just a little while longer.

With a family to take care of, children to look after, and a relationship to keep up, there’s hardly anytime to accomplish all of that. It’s selfish and immature, but I’m still young and still in need of some quality Grace time.


Don’t get me wrong, I am truly happy for my friend getting married next May, and it smiles to see happy photos of weddings and baby bumps . . . but (dare I ask this) will all of your young and crazy goals and dreams be accomplished? Eventually, if you don’t forget about them.

Congratulations to the wives, the mothers, the newlyweds, and the men shopping for that perfect ring. Eventually I will join you all in the land of wedding bliss and the joys of motherhood, but for now I’ll wait. I’m only twenty-three, and I want some adventuresome stories to tell my future children and a legacy to leave behind.

On a final note, happy birthday Flora! You truly are an inspiration to not only me, but to every person you meet. I love you, and I hope you enjoyed your special day.

The Ups and Downs of Being in Love

In one minute, this:

Prince Eric: “I miss you!”

Grace: “I miss you more!”

Can turn into this:

Grace: “I love you!”

Prince Eric: “I love you more!”

Grace: “I love you most!”

Which can somehow quickly escalade into this:

Prince Eric: “Whatever.”

Grace: “Fine.”

Ah, the wonderful world of young love and relationships . . .


One of the girls I work with once told me that she doesn’t love her boyfriend all of the time, and I found this rather peculiar. These two are high school sweethearts, they’ve been dating for five years, and I expect an invitation to their future wedding. Maybe she’ll let me be the wedding singer. Doubtful, as my singing kills anything living within a ten-mile radius, but a girl can dream.

I remember, I gave her this skeptical look, which made her explain:

Don’t get me wrong, I love Alan with all of my heart, and when I’m mad at him I still love him, but I love him a little bit less.

I remember being all types of confused at this point. She clearly saw it on my face:

Elaine: “Have you and Prince Eric ever gotten in an argument?”

Grace: “Oh God, yes.”

Elaine: “Exactly, like every couple. You still loved him after the fight, yes, once everything was said and done?”

Grace: “Absolutely.”

Elaine: “But, for a little while longer, you felt some resentment, no?”

Grace: “You could say that, since I’m a stubborn German.”

Elaine: “Exactly! Now do you see what I’m saying?”

And I got it, just like that.


Our first date. [Originally posted on]

Our first date.
[Originally posted on]

Prince Eric and I have been together for almost two years now–actually, Fourth of July of this year marks our two-year anniversary (so childish, but still cute-as-a-button) to be exact. We’ve fought. What couple hasn’t? Apparently, it’s healthy, if the manner of arguing is healthy . . . kind of like a debate, except the topic is about the dirty dishes or leaving the living room a hot mess, not so much about the state of the fiscal cliff or global warming.

I’ve realized that I do dislike Prince Eric sometimes, where I really don’t want to talk to him for a short period of time. Sometimes, after an argument or a misunderstanding, I just want to become a hermit (just from him) and shut our world out, until I miss him again and I am truly over everything.

It took me a while to realize that relationships have their ups and downs, like a roller coaster or frequency distribution. It’s okay to dislike someone for a little bit only to love them even more than you have before. It’s not all peaches and cream–or fins and legs, in this case.

It took me a while to realize that fairy tales are make-believe, and that reality is a bell curve.

Misunderstandings While Standing in the “Seeking Employment” Line

Dear Grace,

Thank you for taking the time to meet with us about the Marketing Associate position.  We appreciate your interest in our company.  At this time we have filled the position with another candidate whose experience more closely matches the requirements for this role.  We would like to keep your resume on file should we have openings in the future.

Please know that your time and interest were greatly appreciated and best of luck to you in your future endeavors.

Best regards,

[The Company That Didn’t Hire Me]


Things I Don’t Understand About the Job Hunt

  1. Why are you lying to me? The Marketing Associate position I applied for (above) had a job description that read “no experience necessary,” so what’s the real reason behind you not hiring me? I have marketing experience, so there has to be another reason, right? Help me help you; how can I improve?
  2. Why are you being a coward? Not only are you hiding the real reason from me, but you didn’t even have the decency to call. I’d rather hear you say I didn’t get the job than imagine hearing you typing that email. That’s like breaking up with someone via text . . . or email. Most jobs talk about networking and face-to-face interactions and connections, but yet you hide behind a computer screen in fear of my reaction to your rejection? Not to mention, you promised you’d call; this relationship’s over.
  3. Why can’t you give me a chance? How can you judge my work ethic based on an interview asking me questions like “What’s your biggest accomplishment?” or “When were you feeling your weakest in your current position?” Shouldn’t practice and provided materials prove my worth, like published work, references, etc.? Why can’t you give me a chance to prove to you that, although I am very green in the professional world, I’m up to the challenge.


Maybe I’m still immature, or maybe I’m speaking for all of the unemployed college graduates out there. Throw us a bone/give us a break! I am capable, and I am talented and passionate. I am also ankle-, knee-, (ah shit) WAIST-DEEP in student loan debt.

Help me help you, professional world. Tell me how I can improve to meet your standards for the American dream.

Related posts:

A Letter to the Class of 2014
Embarking on the Next Big Adventure
Yay or Nay?

The First City

I, and I’m sure other Chicagoans, find the reactions we get, from locals abroad, when we say we’re from Chicago, quite humorous. It could go one of three ways, or all three, depending on the individual:

  1. “Oh my God, do you know Oprah?!” No . . . hate to burst your bubble, but Oprah isn’t everybody’s friend, just Gail’s and developing communities in Africa’s. This question was very popular when I was in Australia.
  2. “Oh, Al Capone,” accompanied by finger gun motions and *pow, pow* noises. Some just straight up ask about the mafia–Italian, Irish, and Russian, mostly–or ask if we’re affiliated. If I was, do you think I’d tell?
  3. And, then, of course, the all-time “abroad” classic: “Stupid American(s).” One of my tour guides even told our group to say we were from Canada.


The Windy City.
Chitown or Chi City.

A place where there are only two seasons: winter and construction. A city where you’re sitting poolside one day only to shovel your driveway the next.

Where speed limits are only recommended guidelines that only out-of-towners follow. Where you’re risking your life by trying to merge into the left lane on the Kennedy, and where express lanes aren’t so express around three o’clock.

A city where everybody claims to be from, but true Chicagoans reside where the L stops. A city that most are afraid of, but a city that more people love.

Sky scrapers touching the clouds, housing big businesses and views for miles. All the money is here; some of the corruption is here.

A place where foodies thrive and will travel to the most dangerous parts of the city for the best burritos in town. The home of the deep dish pizza, and don’t you dare ask for ketchup at the hot dog stand.

Where Malnati and Portillo are household names; where Capone and Oprah are household names. Where the citizens take pride, even if their team hasn’t won a World Series in over a hundred years.

A city where the streets are crowded with herds of people in red, black, and white, adorning the yellow, green, and orange feathers. The hopes of Derrick Rose making a come back are still in the air.

Contaminated water, but the beaches are still packed every weekend. Lousy pay-to-park terminals, but everybody still renews their space.

The home of Lollapalooza and a sculpture dedicated to something that makes you fart. The home of Marshall Field’s, rest in peace.

Resurrection Mary rests here. The spirits of Hull House and the Iroquois Theater haunt here.

Where there is a whole district dedicated to meat-packing, as there is an entire island dedicated to beer. Where location is key, and where you live really does matter.

We’re a boiling melting pot of cultures, differences, and similarities. Where influences bring us together.

A place where you look forward to Paczki Day every February or March. Where you take off work to go to the Taste.

A city where you’ve made friends and enemies. A place where you’ve found yourself; a place where you’ve found love.

New Yorkers say Chicago is the Second City.
We refer to it as the first; Chicago is second to none.

My city.
My first love.
My forever home.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

As we grow and mature, we realize the break-up cliché phrase, “It’s not you, it’s me,” seems rather selfish. When you’re with someone for an extended period of time–1 month could be another person’s 5 years with another–you grow and you change, and you definitely evolve into a different person, in consideration to the person you were in past relationships.

There I was, in my past lusts’ and crushes’ lives, quiet, bored, and settling. Ariel (Grace) wanted something new. Ariel (Grace) wanted to walk on the warm sand. No one understood. They were all good, in their own individual ways, but they weren’t great. And it’s not just the sex; it’s the warm embraces, the nervous glances with flapping butterflies, the conversations and friendly debates, the commonalities and the differences . . . that was always missing.


Once upon a time, Prince Eric was completely miserable. He hated himself and he liked his girlfriend, very much. The fighting would never cease, to the point where his little sister was violently involved. His girlfriend punched his sister in the face.

Things suddenly began to turn up for Prince Eric as he ignored the phone calls and apologetic texts from his ex-love, and as he began to text and call a new flame.


To clarify, Prince Eric and I are doing just fine. I fall in love with him more and more each day, and we’re really progressing as a couple. We’ve got our whole summer planned out with trips to the beach, concerts and festivals, and a list of restaurants and bars we want to try (even though we always go back to our favorite: Chipotle). Both of us are expanding in our career paths; I finally have a promising lead on a job I would love to have and, in my opinion, fit well with, while he’s in the processing of fulfilling his childhood dream of becoming a police officer. We’re growing and changing and bettering ourselves thanks to the confidence, love, and support we give each other.

So, to say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” in a break-up is selfish. That’s no way to thank someone in shaping you as the person you were when you were in the relationship and the person you are leaving it.

Disclaimer: Purely a random thought. I don’t plan on breaking up with Prince Eric anytime soon (or ever, if that doesn’t sound too much like an Overly Obsessed Girlfriend meme). It was just a random thought, and a look back down memory lane and all of the times I’ve said, “It’s not you, it’s me.”